The southwest tower is haunted by a skeletal horse. Few people see it, but at sunset, you might hear it sing.
KINDERLIED
As I was riding to Banbury Cross,
Lazily lilting of lovers in loss,
Out swept a seeress who sneered down her nose:
“He shall have music wherever he goes.”
As I was riding to Banbury Square,
Twined in a tribute to tumbledown hair,
Out skipped a maid: “Are you singing for me?”
Studied and sober, I stared at the sea.
As I went riding to Banbury Street,
Rhyming a romance with riddles replete,
Out slouched a spinster: “Perchance it’s my day?”
Crabbed and confounded, I cursed the delay.
As I was riding to Banbury Lane,
Poignantly piping of passion and pain,
Out shuffed a widow: “Can you see his face?”
Piqued and impatient, I parted apace.
As I went riding to Banbury Road,
Wide by the wayside that wisdom bestowed,
Out rose a hymn: Every rapturous word
Rang through the alleyway. Nobody heard.
(For all the entries in this series, hit the “looking up” tab, or read the gargoyle FAQ.)
Quid Plura? 
This might be my favorite in the series so far… it feels like the sort of things Peter S. Beagle writes now and then (which is high praise.)
LikeLike