Oh hear the waves upon the stone,
They sing of things best left alone.
Beneath the moon, so cold, so pale,
There walks the watcher, called the Kneal.

Its back is bent, its limbs are long,
Its voice is silence, not a song.
It stalks the dunes where shadows play,
And marks the house that looks its way.

The sailors whisper, “Mind the deep,
The Kneal is hungry, never sleeps.
It waits for children by the tide,
And follows them when they confide.”

So close your eyes and bar your door,
Don’t linger staring at the shore.
For once you see its patient gaze,
The Kneal will haunt you all your days.