into indian ink night
into cradle snakes

creepers know nightmare hands
wings murmur like rumour

No provident winter plants,
Tendrils tap at the window

On the bare boards beside her
The gilt mirror
Where she mourns

Her age looks in

The tight mouth tells no secrets
breath clouds the glass

She holds her white candle
to the prowling dark
the chattering shanties

She has left her gray woman’s soul at the milestone
A hungry ghost