A patch of moonlight on the path to my home
Through the thickets of myrtle out of bloom
With the sky colourless in the evening gloom
The shade of the branches does tenderly comb.

'Tis not far from the dim lights of hills yon ahead
And the spinning windmill sends its croak.
With a cane and a lamp, in a black-hooded cloak,
In silent paces I tread...

In a time that wasn't named
In the lands yet to be tamed
Was a tale that I heard tell
Of the Roamer with the Bell

Winter, 1984
I roved the woods along the shore
I'd travelled down untrodden ways
In quest of lore of th' olden days

And when the night fell, out of darkness came a voice...

"O Fair wanderer, tell me where I stride
For the roads through the dark woods seem ever alike
'Tis but vain in this misty labyrinth to hike
Pray the Lord my ways to guide"

"Pray the Lord my ways to guide"
Said the stranger amber-eyed
She wasn't cold, nor was she kind
'Twas her song that caught my mind

And so I said, well, if I may
The place is called the Witherslay
A sweeter name it once had had
Until one night when all went mad

Tombs and graves still bear the name
Of Wintersleigh, a town of fame
Ere devils came on horses' backs—
A grimly night of shining blade and axe!

And when the day dawned, not one single body stood...

Isn't it beautiful, how on Deaths history is writ
How Sorrows and Grief in our names are woven?
So my friend, who chose this mournful place to rove in
Will the name of yours be mine to wit?

"So," she said, hardly paying attention to my enquiry,
"I suspect you're sort of a historian?"
"Oh no, just a folklorist who, if born a quarter millennium earlier,
Could have entertained the idea of becoming a bard."

"And why the lantern left unlit in the dark?"

Isn't it beautiful, how on Darkness Lights are laid
How Truth and Deceit to the same dam are born?
If Fate decrees this tranquilness be torn
Let it be the sound of my cane
Tapping my lantern pane
But spare my moonlighted path
From my grief, from my wrath
From any colour, O from any colour manmade!

The song from the Roamers of old I have learnt,
The song to thee now I have passed.
Though the flames of thy lantern-bell nevermore last,
Thy taper of tales shall forever be burnt.