We make our way down to the churchyard
in matching snoods,
arpeggiating our twiggy digits
against our rough crescent chins,
the moon a dull hubcap
snagged in a tree.
Widdershins is the order of the day,
index fingers pressed to lips
as we tip-toe round the graves,
sort of finding our stride
after an owl says something in the bell tower.
Cecil watches the porch in case of Satan,
ready with a silver closh
and hammer.
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