It is night;
There is no moon.
The earth is bare.
North wind shrieks and moans through frozen
branches in shivering trees.
Beyond the twin pillars,
I walk the path of the dead.
Alone, through the shadows,
I come to the black archway
And stand before the Gates of Death.
A figure, robed in darkness,
Still and silent, waits.
A cowl of of shadow hides the awful face.
The Ancient one beckons with staff of yew.
One withered hand holds aloft a smoking torch
That flickers and sparks.
Again he beckons.
Perched on one shoulder, an owl sits
In silent contemplation; watching, waiting,
Listening to the dogs baying in the night,
Listening to the howls of the wolves
Echoing in the frozen air.
Madly they cry, for they know
Their keeper is come,
Warden of the dark tower,
The Ruler of Death walks abroad.
I come to him,
Fearful as I take his outstetched hand
And, even as I watch,
The hand that seemed so gaunt and old
Turns soft and warm within my grasp.
In the shadowed eyes I see a land of Beauty and Peace.
The hood falls back and his beauty shines forth.
With joy I know
My Lord.

Starlytgrl