Survivors have forgotten the plague-stricken town
where the heavy oak doors remain locked.
Blighted winds strike the loosened shutters,
once noble parochial gods stand mocked.
The nearby lake which teemed with life
and saw many a callous piscator
is now the texture of putrid buttermilk.
A steady breeze, then pestilent gales pick up and roar
through the long relinquished town square,
cascading rigamortified leaves up into the air.
The sky is a flaxen haze portending chagrin.
Feral dogs are moving in,
their shadows flickering in the nebulous dusk
against derelict plows now covered in rust.
Yet in the doldrums, this ruined town
sometimes a vagrant in the road will hear
the mellifulous moaning of a distant viola
the provenance of which a mystery: nobody goes near
the godforsaken place. The eerie strands, seeming to affect the weather,
fill the contiguous woods like mournful angels seeking shelter.
A century on and the winds will still blow, pure as the seventh circle.
The crawly viola will still be playing.
Its music slithering through the root-strewn graveyard
around statues of saints praying.
This I say in all honesty, don’t care if I sound cruel:
if you travel to that nefarious place you are but a ponderous fool!