The Hollow

Kinda Lovecraftian.

Somewhere, miles from any dwelling

And over a hill from the nearest road,

Sinks a deep and rushing hollow,

Ringed with gnarled and frowning oaks.

 

The men who work the land around it

Never notice it aloud;

When passing by they barely see it;

As if ‘tis hidden, all ashroud.

 

No men name it, no men thither

E’er in memory’s tale advanced,

No one tells tall tales about it:

Not one gives it second glance.

 

Deep inside the rushing hollow,

Down below the shadowed oaks,

Lies a carven tablet hidden,

Writ with words men shall not know.