Highwayman A gale blasted in the bleak night through finger trees, The moon shone its beacon across the cloudy seas. The road a mud track winding around the cold moor, He approached, wet and cold up to the oak door. Gold laced coat and cocked hat proudly perched high, And tight black boots pulled up almost to the thigh. The door was locked all was quite in the farmyard, Families asleep, safe, all was locked and barred. A solider spotted me now know where to stop and rest, A musket pointed menacingly beneath his army crest. I escaped into the moonlight and died into the darkness there, My coat snagged on a branch and began to rip and tare. The muddy road behind me and my cutlass branded high, I curse at being caught my blade sparkled in the sky. Maybe not in the dawning, maybe in the noon, I will return out of the sunset before the rise of the moon. Making sure this time I won’t be cheaply caught, Using my highwayman skills that I was expertly taught.Birth sign: Scorpio
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Mark wells.