Under Popeshall

A thin thread of bootlace strings Mine to the Main road.
A walk in the company of friends,
ancient cripples and dead endings.

No moon tonight, thank goodness,
she is overrates as a companion,
too many things with hair and teeth.

I do not fear the spirits here,
I know them all, family and friends among them.

The disused quarry above the road stands out like life,
vibrant face in pale starlight. Loud in the stillness.
Echoes of hammer blows and harsh burning lime.

The shouts of straining men hoisting blocks, muscle and sinew.
the deadly twang of snapping ropes and backs.
Another ghost born, labour undone.

Further on ancient oak, a witch of recent past,
an arthritic hand grasping sky,
knots of vein and choking ivy, hanging high.

A vixen leaps and looks and disappears again,
herself a ghost in search of life to haunt and chill in undergrowth.
Midnight hour. The town crier calls.

“All is well friends” Popeshall ahead.

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

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