‘By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.’
Macbeth. Act 4, scene 1. William Shakespeare
The trees were loathe to look his way,
The birds afraid to tweet.
The wind grew hushed and tiptoed by,
The grasses feared his feet.
His eyes as dark as nameless sin,
His step was full and slow.
His progress was relentless and
His words were harsh and low.
As warmth gives way to creeping cold,
As joy withdraws from hate,
As I beheld his presence there
As he approached the gate,
I felt my cares come flooding back.
I knew beyond all doubt
I’d never see the sun rise but
I’d seen my luck run out.