A cry in the wilderness.
Out on the marsh somewhere.
Among the tall brown reeds and cool watery spaces.
Perhaps a pony trapped in a bog.
Nothing to be done my Grandmother told me.
I hated staying with them in this desolate place.
Once we saw a tiny spark hovering above the ground. A'Corpse Light' for the souls of the dead my Grandmother said.
"Marsh gas, " my grandfather told me. "Don't fill the boy's head with stories Emma."
I knew the cry wasn't a pony.
One night I heard it and went to look.
Out into the moonlight and the soft springy turf, only the sound of some night bird to pierce the silence. The breeze called me to go further but I stopped. Young as I was I knew it wasn't safe.
A strong brown hand grabbed my arm.
Grandfather pointed to a spot on the marsh where a blue 'Will O the Wisp' flame was hovering.
"A drowned soul from long ago" he whispered. "The marsh keeps what it claims. They can't get away but on moonlit nights you can hear them try."
I took his hand and we went back to the house. The light of a 'corpse candle' had opened my young eyes a little wider to the possibility of deeper things, beyond my own imagination.