Brian P FitzGerald

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Best Poem of Brian P FitzGerald

The Church

My heart is held in icy grip
A biting wind now takes my breath
Along the path I struggle and slip
Before me dance the wraiths of death.

So bleak the church ahead I knew,
Grey and spectral in ghastly glow.
The tumbled tombs and gnarled yew
And drunken headstones covered in snow

The lych gate beckons with moonlit chill;
A frosty welcome offers me.
An ashen light from shuttered grill
What solace there can find for me?

Along the frosty path I tread
In wretched pain and hapless grief.
The door creeks open, with deathly dread
I step inside,...

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