Dead man came softly to knock on her door.
He said Don’t forget how you knew me before.
Dead man sat down to rest in the hall,
He looked at her paintings hung up on the wall.
He said that the best was the murder of crows.
She said they were rooks, he said she should know.
The wind on the hill, the tree by a tomb.
The moon on the moor, the fire in her room.
He asked for whisky; she offered him tea.
A shiver swept through him, as grey as the sea.
They brokered their loss as the night slid away.
She woke in a chair at the cold edge of day.
The dead man was gone, though traces remained –
some mud and some moss, a few tear drop stains.
The wind on the hill, the worms in the earth,
the moon on the moor, the fire in her hearth.
