They speed from all directions, sea and sky,
The gaunt dark spectral figures gathering
Unto this withered heath and ruined tower.
Some stalk in sunken lanes, some drift on scows
Along the dank canal, while some alight
From prows of stormblown ships with ghostly crews.
Some thicken from the mist, some rise from crypts;
Some merely slip through doors, while others slide
From scaley necks of ancient batwinged beasts.
Not one but carries something. Some hold staves
Of runescarred twisted oak with bands of lead,
Or brandish long black blades that glitter well.
Some raise up ragged standards flaunting signs
Of warlike empires fallen long ere Rome.
One lifts a cross, and one or two clutch scythes.
It has been ages since a scene for them
Last flickered up. So naturally they rush.
Even a gaunt dark specter needs to live,
Or something of the sort.
But now they stand
Did there really use to be so many, so alike?
And why is there no-one else on hand, but them?