The Waiting Watchers Poem by Henry Treece

They shall come in the black weathers
From the heart of the dead embers,
Walking one and two over the hill.
And they shall be with you, never farther
Than your bedside.
At their will
The smell of putrefaction lingers
And floor is carpetted with rotting hair;
Or sheets are torn to shreds
By the beaks of dead dry birds
And the red blood clots in your cup.
Put up your swords!
What steel can cut the throat of next year's dream,
What tongue is tunes to speak last night's quick scream?
Go alone by darkness;
Burn the clippings of your nail;
Donate a thousand candles.
But do as you will,
When sun is blind and lamps are lit once more,
Two and one, they shall be standing
At your door