This valley was different. It was bleaker, darker,
Nothing lived or breathed here. No fish, no fowl, no flower,
This terrain was harsh, unfamiliar. Of that he was sure!
Hadn’t he backpacked many continents? But not this sphere!
But it was the nauseating, sickening smell,
That somehow seeped from every orifice of this vile fell.
Once he had sampled something as gross as this on Dartmoor,
Long ago on an August day. On a honeymoon walk near The Tor.
But abruptly in the darkest cavity of this hostile region,
Escaped a strangled cry, so base, so chilling so homo-sapien!
Fear embraced him like a tarantulas web. His saliva turned to sand,
What is happening he called where am I… where is this land?
Death rarely visits twice it is rumoured. And never by request!
But for this lost soul death had left a visiting card. And not in jest!
Now in a pit of Hades, a verdict he will serve. Never to smile or rest.
So what the Bible says was true and I thought I knew best!
Then he began to pray!
But somewhere deep in the forests of his confused mind,
He remembered Psalm 23. And of a dark Valley where the defiled,
Tramped that wide road that is forever the shadow of death.
Then he knew that he to would eternally tread a dejected path.
Never to lie down in green pasture…beneath still waters.
Then he began to pray:
“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff they comfort me” (Ps. 23:4)
(For Terry at the Service Station)
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