He chose to take the shortcut across the snow covered moors,
Where few ever venture and nobody visits or even explores,
Because there's talk of a wild beast that stalks the barren place,
Blood dripping from its fangs and a hungry look upon it's face.
The trees had branches bending low burdened with the snow,
It wasn't too deep where he trod but he had to take it slow,
The light was fading and this seldom used route was faster,
He was just a poor servant needing to get home to his master.
The fires would need stoking in the spare rooms and more,
Had to help with the grange's roof where the rain did pour,
Needed to build up the woodpile and take the dogs for a walk,
Should check in with the kitchen staff to catch the latest talk.
Still the tiny flakes kept on falling soft and coldly unabating,
If he didn't hurry up even his missus would end up waiting,
For until he'd done his duty he couldn't get home to her,
He pulled his ragged blanket round him wishing it was fur.
The driving wind chilled him to his bones where he froze,
His hands were now numb and he couldn't feel his toes,
And a fog seemed to be rolling in which is dangerous here,
There's many a bogpit or hidden crevice in which to disappear.
An owl hoots to set the scene and he starts to fidget so,
Locals avoid the old bridal path and say you should never go,
He's starting to regret it, shivers and not just for frosty night,
Feels eyes boring into him and make him want to take flight.
A big hare jumps out startled just as much as he it seems,
Tears off across the field and the old man to himself beams,
Realises he's spooked and pulls his cap down lower now still,
Shielding his eyes in truth more than protecting from chill.
By now the grange will be lit for Christmas the tree alight,
Carols will be sung in church at the mass come midnight,
And garlands of fresh spruce and holly laid on the sills,
The scent of pine and orange pommanders gently spills.
With these fond remembrances he rushes quickly along,
Thinking of the music and his favourite festive song,
But that feeling of something closer only grew stronger now,
He stumbles on tree roots and loses his bearings somehow.
He thinks he sees the village lights way off to the far right,
Knows if he veers a little East the grange will come in sight,
But then the hairs on his arms start to prickle and tingle,
Feels fear and anticipation rolling inside trying to mingle.
And he walks all the faster knowing he should be going slow,
But afraid to linger more than he has to as silence starts to grow,
An ominous quiet where ravens and crows cease their din,
Watching from the treetops eyeing his cowardice with a grin.
Just as he started judging himself too for being so foolish,
Something clammy touched his shoulder and his wish
To get home in one piece fell apart like the clothes on his back,
As a skeletal figure formed in the mist behind him on the track.
A ghostly apparition as ominous a sign as he could stand,
Gripping tight to his shoulder with the boniest shrivelled hand,
And he took off down the lane at a speed he couldn't sustain,
His sides about to split from lack of oxygen, fright and pain.
He swore he could hear it following him in its vain pursuit,
Shrieking in the wind trying to trip him and catch his boot,
His face a deathly hollow neither willing to ever surrender,
The poor servant called for help hoping for a valiant defender.
And at the grange only the stable boys ran curiously to his aid,
They're too excited about today to be so superstitiously afraid,
But he doesn't stop running till he reaches the yard full pelt,
Fearing his heart would fail him and his insides would melt.
And the cook came back with a brandy as he explained,
The boys laughed and returned to work as he looked on drained
Of all colour and earnestly trying to assure those who stayed,
He hadn't been imagining things he'd really been waylaid.
A few smirks and mumbles greeted his words that eerie night,
And some grumbled about drinking saying it wasn't right
To start too early the evening was still young, they'd got chores,
"We're hard working folk," they scoffed, "you'd better get to yours!"
And so by the crescent moon he had to pluck up the nerve,
To go about his usual business with extra vim and verve,
He lost his Christmas goodwill and argued with himself a bit,
Had he really dreamt it in his mind or been accosted by a spirit?
By the end of the evening when he got home to his patient wife,
He confessed to her he was late but only as he'd saved his life,
And she scowled a fraction smelling alcohol still on his breath,
"You'd better make it up to me," she sneers,"else I'll be your death!"