The village store has, just this minute, closed.
It’s drawbridge has gone up-portcullis down.
An aproned granny smirks behind the door
and labours the cruel bolt into its case.
My eyes weak pleading falls on stony ground.
I curse her and her brood under my breadless breath,
And curse ‘life in the country’ milk-less on halloween.
A youth observes this frieze of unmet needs
In the dark hunching of Milnthorpe Square.
Just then, Death walks past, blood on his shining scythe.
‘You’re the one that I’ve been looking for
these past two years and more!’
and push him in the back of my old van,
pleased he’s at my shoulder once again.
Then a little witch walks past with a broom,
a-hubble and a-bubble, lovely little witch.
Suddenly, I feel so sad for me.
No kids or pumpkins or those vampire masks.
Just me, and all my dry and dusty books.
Writing down the bones