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Once more.  Look: a spent old scarecrow
shrivelled face
straw-dry shadow
swaying like a leaf
bending and swaying over books.

Once more.  Look: a spent old crone
weaving and weaving
knitted stockings
mouth full of curses
lips forever mumbling curses.

There’s the household cat
has not moved since I left,
still dreaming by the stove
playing cat and mouse
in his dream.

And as ever, in darkness
the spider weaves
hanging its web
full of swollen fly corpses
in the dark west corner.

You’ve not changed:
All old as the hills.
Nothing new.
I’ll join you, old cronies!
Together we’ll rot till we stink.

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