Ms Cheryl Diane Parkinson

Writer


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The Old Wily Wood

Would you take a walk through the Old Wily Wood?

Where the Ambergris Grimm is up to no good?

Would you take a stroll through the deep if you could?

Knobbly limbs lobes, probes, trunks awkwardly stood.

 

The moon riding high casting an eerie glow,

Distorting the shadows that flick two and fro,

Stretching and haunting  nooks, crooks and low,

Ghostly shadows in the brush, eyes red a-glow.

 

A quiver, a shiver, shudders up your spine,

A soft moaning wind, whines round through the pines,

Shadows n’ figures, glide and entwine,

The trees, reaching branches, snag, scrape: so malign.

 

Flaunting the haunting, the wood loses your steps,

Stumbling and fumbling through the darkness and wet,

The rain in cahoots, drizzles cold wet and frets,

As the wind whips up the pace; your fate is set.

 

Leaves floating free tumble and cover your tracks,

Whispers and flutters round your ears, face and back,

Changing, evolving the wood stops your backtrack,

The  wily wood’s laughter, rings live through the black.

 

Would you take a walk through the Old Wiley Wood?

Heart hammers in fear, could you burn firewood?

Knowing the trunks and branches where they stood,

Could rip up their roots, move, betraying deadwood.

 

Would you take a walk through the dead of the night?

Shadows seeping, creeping and curling in sight,

The moon riding high, lonely, pale and in fright

The freaky whispers; pluming breath, fragile-white.

 

Rough knobbly fingers rip and tear at your hair,

Not for the faint hearted, so better beware!

Red eyes in the undergrowth, tread with a care!

Moaning winds, yawning mouths, beware the beast’s lair!

 

Would you take a walk through the Old Wiley Wood?

Knowing that the trees there were up to no good?

Would you take a stroll through the dark if you could?

Knobbly limbs, lobes, probes, trunks awkwardly stood.

 

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