Countisbury Wights
a Blank Verse, by Steve Whitmill
The Barrows of Countisbury Head
The last resting place of the ancient dead
Now the living place of their souls
On one night of each year they are celebrated and cackle amongst themselves
These wights and spectres arise
Wraiths in their grey shrouds
They hold high their rusted swords
They look through their eyeless sockets to see their ancestors
Words are hissed between fleshless jaws
Fighting and royal garbs hang off their boned frames
The aura of defiance and death fills their burial chambers
But we do not see or hear them
We are not murdered or exalted by them and their status
They come back for themselves
Unless a fool should disturb them at this witching hour…
—–
Countisbury Head, North Devon
June 2022 © Steve Whitmill