The Church

Above the sickly rain-lashed trees
A blackened hat of moss and stone
The hordes of timbered hosts crowd round
In homage to the grizzled crone

Near yielded to the brambled tide
One faint path entreats the gloom
Past the creaking leaf-mulched trees
Soft silhouetted headstones loom

Dank clearing framed by buttressed bark
Receives the moon's cloud-scudded smiles
Below the door's scarred sandstone arch
Bow granite steps to leathered miles