The silent Autumnal winds howled with delight.
They gave me chills but they gave others fright.
Sometimes the air tasted sweet, while other times stale,
But tonight was the night that there was such a gale.
Alone was I with naught but book,
Save the shelter of the far-away nook,
And such company as the wind who stole all,
From the tiny leaves to the branches tall.
Encompassed in a ghastly fog,
Nearly tripping over that rotten log,
To the haven whence none hath sung,
As loudly as the frigid rain fell and flung.
As moonlight shone through a cloud,
Whilst light it gave, still I was cowed,
By shadows and the relentless claws from the trees,
That stung me as harshly as a swarm of bees.
Hither and thither I wandered through,
Bent from pain, I tramped on true.
Meager though was my last meal,
I still scampered through the ether, now a dark teal.
Haunted looked the woods tonight.
Animals howled on the left, and screeched to my right.
The woods spoke in a somber tune,
“Death lies beyond for the loon”.
Wearily marched on did I,
While the trees promised that I would die.
“They’re just trees,” I muttered.
“What do they know?” I sputtered and stuttered.
Breathlessness overtook me and so I came to a halt,
And I scanned my coat for a wooden vault.
Upon locating it, I swatted for the lantern that hung by hook,
Found it, and paraded on to read my book.
Albeit not before I took a match,
And opened the lantern’s silver latch.
I struck the stick unto flame,
And lit the wick all the same.
I tossed the matchstick right aside,
Into the river crossing that stretched far and wide.
As one fire died the other burned bright,
Illuminating the dreary night.
Still I marched on, now with flame,
Whilst on the book flickered a name:
Edgar A. Poe, glittered the book,
As I crossed another bridge over the brook.
Now with more vigor I moved along,
As the winds chilled further and grew terribly strong.
And then I slowed to climb a hill,
With the treacherous path only those with strong will
Dared to climb at such an hour.
And with the weather so very dour.
All to read my very old book,
Alone and tucked away in my far-away nook.
Soon, to the top I had approached,
And just then a claw had broached
My skin as I bled through my cloak,
Just as my candle decided to smoke.
Behind me howled the wolverines,
With intention to rip me to smithereens.
And just then I backed into a tree,
As the beasts moved in and cornered me.
But then the winds that stung me so much,
Pushed the willow’s branches with their harsh touch,
Into a wolverine with such a force
That the rest followed its downward course.
And then I sighed a breath of relief,
For a while, however brief,
Before tumbling into a deep, deep sleep,
Forgetting entirely about my book, as the willow continued to weep.