Rufus Woodward's Blog, page 3

The woods here are nothing they once were

VI
Hazel and birch tree, oak and fir
Down in the wood of Murroa
Where roots burrow deep
Where leaves grow so thick
That no full moon ever shines.

In the dark wood of Murroa
Who knows what a man might find?
Shadows that speak
And beg for release
While the devil himself rides by

A gentleman walks out at midnight
A rope tied to a noose in his hand
At the end of his path
Is a door like a trap
For the unwary soul to fall in

So it was when I was a boy
When my grandfather told this tale
But time is...

This story still has some telling to do

V
It is an old story this one
But, you’ll believe me when I say
All the more true for being so

My grandfather first told it me
When I was only a tiny boy
And I’ve spoken and I’ve sung it out

More times than you could ever count
To anyone who’ll listen
To anyone who will hear me

But my back is twisted now and
My head is grey and I know that
Soon enough I’ll be put under this turf

Where my skin will rot and my bones bleach
And there will be nobody left
Who’ll want to listen to me

So this story...