Upon the high and lonely Wolds, Northwards... from the Town of Stow,
where two ancient trackways cross; there stood a village, long ago.
Now lost; just grassy mounds and banks... three blighted acres, all bereft;
and on a hill, a ruined church... the only structure there, still left.
Middle Ditchford, this once was; five hundred souls once worked this land,
as they had ever done; until, one day, they felt the Reapers hand.
Bubonic plague... the Black Death, came; brought by some traveller from afar,
and soon, with rude red crosses, all the homely cottage doors were marred.

The Parish Magistrate ordained all there, be shuttered... to a man.
The Stow Militia mustered... and the cordonment then swift, began.
Until the pestilence had run its course; no soul let out... or in;
not even to the fields where stood the crops, all ripe for harvesting.
And so; there stood the wheat and barley, rotting in the Autumn rain;
and so, there came the rats, to gorge themselves upon the festering grain;
and so, there came more fleas to spread the plague to those, as yet... still spared;
who languished, as the food ran out; and for the children, thus despaired.

In desperation, to the village crone, they did impeach their plight...
a Hemlock potion was concocted; Mandrake magic in the night.
First the children... then the adults drank deep, from this bitter well
to escape the black hand of the Reaper... spared a lingering hell.
And, it is said, as darkness crept upon them, then a curse was bred
upon all travellers passing there, for bringing death upon their heads.
Their bodies cast into a pit of lime; the village razed and burned;
the fields then fired, and all laid waste...
for fear, the pestilence returned.

All this, above six hundred years ago; yet, in those acres, three...
where, once stood Middle Ditchford; nothing grows... you scarcely see a tree,
nor hear a bird... just scrub and weed; a blighted land, an evil spot;
you may think to gaze a while... most certainly, though; you should not.
For it is said, on lonely nights; when wind blows cold, across the land;
the moon... a faintly thin, sharp sliver like a boot heel in wet sand;
from out the ruined church you may just hear the tolling of a bell...
and hear the whimpering of the souls lost in their pestilential hell.

It may be true... it may be not; it may just be a creepy tale;
and yet... it is an evil road; this Roman Fosse across the Vale.
All arrow straight... no dangerous curves, and yet, the accidents abound;
so many travellers, maimed and killed... and causes, seldom ever found.
Is it perhaps, the Middle Ditchford curse survives up to this day?
Is it perhaps, not just coincidence Death stalks this bleak Highway?
Take care, if you should travel out across the Wolds upon this road,
beneath the ruined church, upon the hill...
Beware!
You have been told.