The ghosts of Skidbrooke Church
Bancroft and old willows weep on her holy lands.
The children of mirth dancing between the stones.
Heads shall roll if you should call down evil.
And all the woes of a spell maker hang in doubt.
In the middle age I saw a bright light,
Falling amongst the shadows when John laid down here.
Coming from the east on winds of gusting squall,
A memory of the three having done no evil remain.
Brother Michael knew too much and suffered the fate,
Remaining here for all time protecting those in distress.
Don’t enter the sacristy if you fear your last breath,
Being lost upon the alter when baying crowds will kill.
Yelling at the boughs, burn them devils witches now,
Be gone ye children of the daughters of wicked men.
For in the wild September nights has come a pallid light.
That reaches way beyond the grave and into visions sight.
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