Blakean

Watching from the ancient steeple
tears fall down upon the people
silver rain.
Watching from the bitter tower
fears do not forget their power
once again.
Watching from the haunted house
in the moorland of the grouse
mist is pain.
What the watcher? What the catch?
Whose the finger at the latch?
What the bargain what the blood?
What the hour and what the flood?
'tis the hour the doors ajar
open wider to afar
and the lost come back 'ahome
'tis the hour of kingdom come
'tis the hour they all fortold
preacher's new and prophets old
come unlooked for as they uttered
doors open, windows unshuttered.
Hush then, lest the latch a-rattle
lest the dead tongues give their prattle
talking of unspoken sights
aeons darker than our nights.

(real time poem(tm) from facebook)