The Tower

In the days when death, less subtle
Rode upon the very wind
The Plague into this town blew in
And quartered the life it harboured

Humans lived in midday darkness
Cursed the Lord or Antichrist
From the port and to the sky
Cast their jaundiced eyes in sadness

And meanwhile as booboes swelled
The fairest of maidens blackened
Ill to bed with no way back
Into common gravepits felled

Far too many for the churchside,
Not enough for hell
Young and old they fell
Dogs and vermin multiplied

The tower upon the isle,
Far from shore, but not of sight
Was hollow from the fire inside
The new-found grave for the dead and vile

The dead, so many, choked the streets,
Were ferried across the harbour
With naught ado - into the tower
The plague grew weak as it was filled

Scorn the hand that brought destruction
The same no doubt that made the stars
Rain into the sea at night
Stir up sprites of putrefaction

The stench of death clung to the mist
That crept at night out of the water
The tower of the dead and rotten
Bled pestilence into the wind