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Poetry Pleases: A Chilling Tale From The Moor

Here at Halloween is a suitably spooky poem by Sylvia Wiseman.

An' now my dears, I tell a tale
'Tis sure to make you shiver.
'Twas on a night so cold and black
'T would surely freeze your liver!

The wind it blew, the rain it lashed,
The cloud above was racing.
An' down the road it could be heard
A horse's hooves was pacing.

A darkened figure came in view,
The steed, his eyes shone red;
His flaring nostrils snorted loud.
His rider had no head!

The sound of laughter ghostly rang,
Cut through the stormy night.
But on the headless figure rode
An' disappeared from sight!

The moon came out to show the way
And, cleared away from cloud,
It showed a pile upon the ground.
When looked upon a shroud!

'Tis certain when the treetops moan
And mist comes o' er the moor,
He'll come a' riding once again
An' knock at your front door.

But if you know what's good for you,
Don't answer. If you dare,
You' re sure to see his ghostly form.
'Twill give you such a scare.

Your hair will turn a deadly white;
Your lips will be quite pale.
You may not even live to tell
Your grand-childer this tale!

So if you hear that ghostly laugh
When lying in your bed,
The phantom rider's just outside,
Come looking for his head!

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