Return

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.