Black Shuck Prowls Tonight
The woods are still and silent,
All birds have taken flight.
No creature ventures above the ground,
For Black Shuck prowls tonight.
The trees are hushed and frozen
And the bushes hold their breath
As a cold breeze blows and a shadow falls
With the stink of fear and death.
Along the forest pathway,
Pads a shape as dark as pain,
Green glowing eyes and dripping jaws,
That no man could restrain.
And in the nearby village,
An icy sense of fear.
The silence screams the message,
That danger’s drawing near.
No one goes near their windows,
No curtains even twitch.
The streets are dead as a stone grey corpse,
The sky as black as pitch.
Was that a growl I heard outside?
A sound of panting breath…
I dare not peep for just to see
Means swift and certain death.
For if his gaze falls on you,
‘S too late for fear or dread.
Just catching sight of that hellish hound,
Means you’re already dead.
So clasp your hands together,
And drop down to your knees.
Beg God to bring the morning,
And hope he hears your pleas.
Till then bolt up your windows,
And pull your blankets tight.
For in the gloom, ‘neath a blood red moon,
Black Shuck prowls tonight.
Alan Blyton was born in Cambridgeshire and now splits his time between London and the fens, where he occupies himself as an actor, writer, musician and entertainer. He has a special place in his heart for the macabre and has been fascinated with ghost stories and spooky folklore ever since he can remember. He is currently working on a collection of horrible poems for children.