by Richard Hedderman
The moon had us hoodwinked,
escaping through the branches,
clutching a bundle of dead sheaves
and a sack of children’s teeth,
hiding its face under its bare arm.
The broken bones of the old house
strained to be heard over the groans
of the church steeple struggling
to keep its head up in the wind.
Quivering trees spattered rain
from their bruised leaves, staining
the gravel the color of blood.
Then I heard footsteps then
came a roaring silence
to wake the dead.
Copyright Hedderman 2024