Over the empty cemetery; above the slabs and stones,

Stands an ink-black raven, a keeper of the keys

Though appearing solitary, he is not alone

Six shadow brothers lurk among the trees

One key dangles from a beak, another from a talon,

Two hide behind a brick (the one that’s mossy green)

One on a chain of moonlight, another in a fountain.

(Since being forged, the seventh never has been seen)

Keeping watch above the aging stones,

Each slab a storybook; bindings cracked and old

Covers made of granite, with stories in the bones,

Some crypts, some tombs, all with stories to be told

The keys open gates, but not of wood or steel,

Instead, granite doors to dark and wondrous spaces

Barriers of dusty stone that lead to other places,

Passages to lands that lie beyond the seal

The world has many secret gates to long forgotten roads,

A wardrobe, a looking glass; paths to dreamlike lands

This is such a place, where enchanting tales unfold.

Visit a world of endless rain, or touch a shadow’s hand

The ravens have the keys, but not to act as sentries.

They are the guides, and know the paths to share

Not dark sentinels, or guards denying entry

Follow beating wings, iron keys, and weathered stone, to

….Otherwhere