Ring-doves with stoles
as black as ice,
constrained by priestly cloth,
flew oblivious to our delights,
blotting the evening sun.

As rooks adorned
The Gallows frame,
with limbs demure and frail,
bleak spectres stalked the shadows
nigh, their faces gaunt and pale.

You sought a comfort
truly base,
on rocks far to the west,
thatched dwellings stirring distantly,
the town it would not rest.

For fear of the malicious one
that steals both young and aged:
The Gallows wait,
their slender necks,
like brittle coppice gates.