The Lancashire Shrieker

In shadows deep, a black dog prowls,

Its presence looming, a heart that growls.

It wraps around, a shroud of night,

Leaving vulnerability in its eerie light.

In nights deep, a dog pitch-black,

Leads me down dark corridors, no way back.

He pledges brief, but will not leave,

Until my thoughts, he does deceive.

Embedded within my restless mind,

The black dog races, in me entwined.

He pants and paces, but does not bark,

Silence deafening, unholy remarks.

A greedy obscurity, a relentless thief,

In his grip, he sparks my grief.

Unwanted sorrow, a haunting dove,

The black dog, unyielding, steals the ones I love.

He allows no rest, feeding on my soul,

Laughter halts, through days I crawl.

I open my mouth to speak my truth,

Years have passed, adrift my youth.

He stalks me through skies of gray,

Through muted streets, and crowds he preys.

I try to run but cannot hide,

The shrieker lurks, peace denied.

In grounds of frost, with leafless trees,

Emptiness descends, in creeps greed.

A nameless something, a heartless rejoice,

The Shrieker embodies an inner evil voice.

Should you encounter his cold embrace,

Follow the light that flickers, far away.

An ambassador of death, a frightful thing,

In farmhouse fires, he hums and sings.

A scene so vivid amidst years gone by,

A haunting tale, with no goodbye.

In distant Whitewell, down Hodder’s stream,

The Lancashire Shrieker snatches dreams.

A new poem, experimenting with different styles based on the tale of ‘Th’ Skriker’ published in ‘Goblin Tales of Lancashire’ by James Bowker (1878).

Dedicated to Isaac, my black dog x

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