At one in the morning, a cold Sunday night,
January twentieth, no moon in sight,
A weary man rode through Welsh terrain,
Steel wheels humming on a midnight train.
His name was Samuel Hughes, fifty-seven and worn,
A salt trade merchant, tired to the bone,
From Blackwood town he’d traveled south,
To Newport’s docks from early mouth.
All Saturday long, from dawn to late,
He worked through hours that crushed his fate,
Now eyelids drooped as the carriage swayed,
Dreams of home in his mind replayed.
The train slowed down, his heart felt light,
“Almost home,” he thought that night,
He grabbed his bag, stepped onto the floor,
And shuffled out through the carriage door.
The platform stood in silent gloom,
Ten minutes, he thought, till his bedroom room,
But as the train pulled out of view,
A dreadful truth slowly grew.
This was not his station, not his street,
Sleep had tricked his weary feet,
One stop too soon, alone, misled,
The train now gone, the tracks lay dead.
No phones, no cabs, no schedules known,
Just rural roads and stars alone,
So Sam chose hope instead of fear,
And walked toward lights he saw appear.
By chance or fate at crossroads dim,
A lone policeman spotted him,
Relief rushed in like morning rain,
An answer found in midnight pain.
The officer listened, calm and wise,
Then pointed roads beneath dark skies,
“An hour’s walk, a bridge ahead,
Cross it and Blackwood’s near,” he said.
Sam chose the road, not rest or stay,
For home and bed called him that way,
With tired steps and lanterned breath,
He walked unknowingly toward death.
At three a.m., his wife Bess awake,
Her worry grew with each clock’s shake,
He should be home, she knew the time,
This silence felt like a warning sign.
Then through the dark, her heart stood still,
She heard Sam’s voice beyond the sill,
He called her name, calm, clear, and true,
Relief washed in, she always knew.
She grabbed a candle, opened the door,
But Sam was not there on the floor,
Instead, a figure dressed in black,
Stood inches close upon the track.
A long dark cloak, a silk hat worn,
The very hat he’d left with morn,
No fear, no scream, just silent stare,
A ghostly calm filled the air.
She blinked once more—then he was gone,
No cloak, no hat, no shape at dawn,
Fear rushed in where calm once lay,
She searched outside till break of day.
But Sam was gone, no voice, no sign,
By morning light, she crossed the line,
Until a knock that afternoon,
Brought dreadful truth far too soon.
The officer spoke with heavy breath,
Sam fell from the bridge to his death,
Around three a.m., the timing clear,
The same hour he appeared right here.
One question burned inside her mind,
“Was his black silk hat left behind?”
The officer shook his troubled head,
“No hat was found upon the dead.”
And in that moment, truth took form,
The porch, the voice, that shadowed storm,
It wasn’t fear, nor dream, nor trick—
It was goodbye… a final visit.
This tale was told, then printed wide,
Across all Wales, it could not hide,
A true ghost story, old yet strong,
Where love outlived what went wrong.
A man who walked too tired, too far,
A wife who saw his parting scar,
And proof, some say, that souls still roam,
To say farewell… before they’re gone.
