The Ragged Man

A poem from the Devonverse

Don’t go walking when the fog
Comes crawling from the fen,
For if you hear the Ragged Man,
You won’t come home again.

He wears a coat of thorn and thread,
His boots are full of rain,
He taps upon the window glass
And whispers out your name.

First he takes the footpath,
Then he takes the stile,
Then he walks behind you
For half a crooked mile.

Then he steals the lantern,
Then he dims the flame,
Then he stands beside you
And softly says your name.

So shut the gate and bar the door,
And let the fire burn bright,
For the Ragged Man walks softly
Through the fog and through the night.

And if he calls from down the path,
Don’t answer. Don’t begin.
For once you speak to the Ragged Man,
You’ve already let him in.

Author's Notes

This piece was born from a slow afternoon observing the frost patterns on Dartmoor's granite tors, where the land seems to hold its breath in a timeless ritual. I wanted to capture the slow weight of memory that accumulates in these lonely landscapes, treated as a field researcher might record a finding. It is a dispatch from the edge of the Moorelands, where myth and routine converge in the quiet shadows.