The setting sun cast a reddish glow on the Clock Tower

that loomed ominously upon the shore.

As the fishermen returned, a howl rose up

from the distant dark forest.

A few heads turned in the crowd,

and a few mutterings were heard.

But the noise was forgotten,

 as the torches were lit in the village streets.

As darkness fell, and storms clouds

obscured the faint crescent moon,

again the chilling howl was heard.

And then a cold gale blew across the lake

as the storm rolled near.

And amidst the lashing rains and howling wind

that assaulted the village dwellings

and uprooted the trees,

there was a sound of fluttering

as of wings, and a growling

like no sound any one had ever heard.

 And all the torches were extinguished

In the awful flood of death and ruin.

And when at last it ended,

and the clouds rolled past,

and the faint glow of dawn fell once more upon the streets,

only the Clock Tower still remained,

like a dead Titan, its hands twisted

in meaningless directions.

Not merely bent, but melted

in the awful nighttime storm

that had claimed all within the village boundaries.

And in the forest, all was quiet again.

 Like this poem? Then maybe you’d enjoy my book of similar short stories and poetry.