Last return to an old church

The old church beckoned.
Like a small boy who had found a dead lamb
It urged him to draw near-
Its pull greater than the push of fear.

The tower loomed ahead,
Like a giant sarcophagus ****** up one night for the ******;
Ageing, headstone grey,
Endlessly in wait for its prey.

The birdsong ceased,
Like doorstep chatter at the passing of a hearse.
All was stony still,
Subject to a potent will.

A shadow quenched the sun,
Like an oil slick slipping over a dying gull’s eyes.
It penetrated his skin
And he drew its darkness in.

At the porch he paused,
Like a fly frozen between wriggles on a spider’s web.
Journey’s end, he could not pretend.
His soul ready to descend.

Reality retreated,
Like the last boat home from an island in plague.
He succumbed to the bite
Of the avenging Black Knight.