The Harvest Of The Souls Poem by Chris Zachariou

A harbinger of woe—
his fearsome knock was heard at noon
on the tailor's door.

A shadow fell across the land
like the wrath of a forgotten god
a giant stain on the summer sun.

Birds stopped their singing
men and vipers looked for shelter
and only the drumming of his horse's hooves
echoed in the frightened streets and lanes.

People glimpsed his scythe and ran
fathers locked their doors
and mothers hid their maiden daughters.

On 'The Harvest of the Souls' day
the deathless lord had come to town
to demand his promised tithe.