The Wicked Man

A man walked on the lonely heath,
And winter’s bones were white.
The black crow call floated pale
In the chilling evening light.
But all that stirred in the northern wind
Were the lonely leaves of winter.

The mist unrolled on the wild moor,
And silence seized the air.
The white mist swirled around the man,
And trickled through his hair.
And all that stirred in the northern wind
Were two thin hands that weren’t there.

Slowly, slowly, wisping white,
They drifted round his throat,
And brushed there with a touch as light
As ash on water floats.
He screamed: and stirred the northern wind,
In terror, cold, remote.

But as he turned, a chill north wind
Shivered its way through the snow
And all he saw on the lonely heath
Were the lonely leaves of winter.

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