Walford’s Gibbet

What’s that swinging
in the creaking wind
over where the trees break?

Is it your conscience,
pecked by crows,
the old story,

or the devil himself, watching 
between puzzled beeches
in an idle moment,

whistling his songs like wind 
under the cottage door,
and seeping into your sleep?
      
It’s nothing (some thought)
look away. He was good,
loved by all (they said)
and still more handsome
(they seem to remember)
after rotting there 
a twelvemonth,
than anyone else in the village.