The Moors..............

Evil winds blow cross the moor.
Boats get scuttled upon that shore
Such pounding of great hideous waves
Echoing through subterranean caves.
Lightening cracks and thunder rolls
Deep underground like awakening trolls.
Mists and rain roll in banks of fog
Imagination sees the red eyed dog
Devils hounds glide and bay
For unwary travelers who carelessly stray
Out on those moors all wild and cold
Pay heed to the stories by firesides told
Light windows with candles to guide folks back home
The moors on such days are no place to roam.


JKS Oct 2011

Poem by Robert Frost....

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-- Robert Frost