Sentinel

I do not like the thing outside,

the way it stands and never hides,

the way it breathes and how it sighs,

that darker brother by its side.

I hate its singing, fear its wail,

the fact it’s always deadly pale.

I fear its hearing and its sight,

the king of every earthly night.

It is the owner of this place,

without a name, devoid of face.

It has stayed two thousand years,

before the Picts and Roman spears,

and like as not when this land’s gone,

it will be there till kingdom come.