Twisted vines are turning red,
Fuchsias droop a purple stain,
Above the fence white roses wane.
Friday’s child must softly tread.

Floor-wax, a trace of incense lingers;
The tabernacle open wide
Is like an empty tomb inside.
Beads held in reluctant fingers

Guide the murmur of the breath.
Trespasser now tread with care
Between the reasons for despair
All the way as far as death.

Gathered starlings chatter loud
In the late light; the clocktower chimes;
Ghostly-pale a full moon climbs
Out of the folds of linen cloud.

At night the world looks strange indeed
Under a black and silver sky.
A plover shakes its warning cry.
There’s no escape from what we need.