They are coming from the red earth
bodies sloppy with mud like iron and ire.
Rain on the pane ticks like fingers impatient,
the clock matching time
Bend to break brittle little bones, snapping tree fingers for the fire
Quick behind you, a flutter round the whites of your eyes
His were dark and full of promises but now the curtains breathe
No one to keep company now except tea stained books
and figures in the mirrors
The Carving Witch 