Fourways (Poetry)

A corner house, it stands alone,
its nearest neighbour screened by trees
some distance from the gibbet's spot
where shadows swing, stretch long and freeze

the garden's plot devoid of green.
She bought the place with ghosts and all,
ignoring gossip pressed as truth,
her dreams disturbed, she heard him call -

"Straight on, straight on!" the hanged man cried.
The driver looked not left or right
but whipped the team, who sweat their fear
and galloped blind into the night,

hooves sparking on the stony road,
the coach wheels grinding as they spun,
sheer terror goading from the rear,
and caution to the four winds flung.

She traced his single highway crime -
his name in fading records found -
then carved a cross and marked his grave
to sanctify unhallowed ground.

The grass grew back and flowers, too,
forgiving as the light that plays
on souls who hesitate, unsure
when signposts point four different ways.