The Headless Hunter
He rides his horse on the Yorkshire. Mores
The Headless Hunter
On a Yorkshire moor, where winds wail,
A whispered legend rides the gale.
The headless hunter, clad in gloom,
Stalks the night beneath the moon.
Shadows stretch where bracken weaves,
Through ancient stones and fallen leaves.
A hoofbeat echoes, sharp and dire,
A phantom steed of ghostly fire.
They say he roams, a soul betrayed,
By treachery’s hand, his life waylaid.
His searching gaze, though lost to sight,
Seeks justice still in endless night.
Through heathered paths and misted air,
The brave may hunt, but none dare stare.
For in his grasp, the cold blade gleams,
A relic forged of shattered dreams.
Yet some have sworn they’ve heard his sound,
A mournful wail that shakes the ground.
An eerie hush, a whispered name,
A fleeting glimpse of his spectral frame.
So tread with care where legends creep,
Where moors hold secrets dark and deep.
For the headless hunter rides once more,
Eternal guardian of the Yorkshire moor.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
This reads like the Legend of Sleepy Hollow to me. Good job.