In the middle of the graveyard
There is a long forgotten gate
Rusting and half off its hinges
Next to the crumbling angel of slate

Weeds and wildflowers there aplenty
Bees busy in that final resting place
Honey combs drip from hangman’s tree
A ghostly young woman dressed in lace

The gate stands amongst them all
Like a sinister, alien obelisk
A silent menace in the morning light
Gleaming like dark scales of basilisk

No one knows where the gate opens
Except the undertaker’s wife
She dared to look inside once
And afterwards she took her life.
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