The hollow graveyard lay beneath the yew,
Where darkness spread among the dead,
Its gates were rusted, old, and cold,
A story of the lost untold.
Each headstone marked a name erased,
By time’s relentless, cruel haste,
The paths were lined with autumn leaves,
A carpet for the hearts that grieved.
The trees, they whispered secrets dark,
Of broken souls and sorrow stark,
Their branches twisted like hands in pain,
Reaching out in death’s domain.
A spectre stood with wings outspread,
His face was veiled, and his eyes were dead,
He wept for those who sleep below,
In silence deep, where shadows grew.
The wind howled a mournful tune,
Beneath the pale and ghostly moon,
It carried with it cries of old,
Of stories tragic yet untold.
The wind’s laughter, now a wail,
A night that sighed in a ghostly veil,
Ghouls wandered through the mist and gloom,
Their spirits were trapped within decrepit tombs.
In the hall, stained glass glows,
With colours lost to time’s cruel blows,
The benches were empty, in the midst of dust-filled air,
Where voices once rose, now lost despair.
The clock tower struck the midnight hour,
A tolling bell, a voice of power,
It echoed through the hollow night,
A sound that filled the heart with fright.
Whoever walked through these old gates,
They were wary of the past that time berated,
For in the hollow graveyard, shadows of dismay lay,
And in its silence, ghosts still cried.
The moonlight danced on moss-covered stones,
Casting eerie patterns, hauntingly alone,
The silence of the night grew heavy with dread,
As whispers of the past filled the air with lead.
In the stillness, shadows seemed to breathe,
A spectral presence, a chill that seethed,
The nighttime, a labyrinth of sorrow and pain,
Wove stories of the lost that remained.
The mist curled tightly around each vault,
A shroud that held the past tightly gripped,
Echoes of forgotten tales softly sighed,
As restless spirits in their hollow graves confided.
Ancient oaks with bare branches,
Held secrets in the cold night air,
Their gnarled limbs stretched out like a plea,
For solace in eternity’s decree.
As dawn approached with its pale, wan light,
The graveyard lay still, embracing the night,
But shadows lingered where the living dared not tread,
In a realm where the quiet and the haunted wedded.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
