Troll

Beneath the moss‑clad stone of an old railway bridge,
A troll lurks where the river sighs and the willows dip,
His skin the colour of peat after a long autumn rain,
Eyes like twin lanterns flickering in the dusk’s thin veil.

He grumbles a low, rumbling song,
A chorus of creaking timbers and distant thunder,
While children tip‑toe past, clutching their soggy scones,
Unaware that his laughter bubbles in the brook’s soft chuckle.

When fog rolls in from the moors, thick as wool,
He pulls his favourite woollen scarf tighter round his neck,
And watches the world drift by—
A quiet guardian of the crossing,
Half‑myth, half‑memory,
Forever waiting for the next brave soul
To dare to ask, “Who goes there?”
And hear, in reply, the echo of his own heart—
A beat as steady as the old stone beneath his feet.