Poetry

SUPERSTITION

The hollow face belongs to an aging woman.

She has existed in the village long since anyone can remember;

She has managed to outlive everyone else.

Her hands are clasped together, spidery fingers intertwining.

She wears a cerise shawl, fastened to one side with a simple, black pin.

She is ready to perform her daily duty.

Shutting the door tightly behind her, she glances to her left.

Rosemary, growing thick and strong by the garden gate, eases her.

She knows the truth behind the tales.

Scuttling to the centre of the village, she is careful not to step on any cracks.

She may not be as agile as she once was, but her task is important and she goes anyway.

Perching on the edge of a jutting rail, she observes the ruins of a monastery.

Ivy has cracked the archway and one of the turrets has collapsed.

Faith is a commodity now. Only coveting leads to prayer.

Sensing the dwindling of daylight, she prepares for her tuneless wail.

Voice hoarse and scratchy, she begins.

“Les morts-vivants are waking. Les mort-vivants roam the streets.”

Everyone knows to ignore her, because she is old, and knows not what she speaks of.

Ellie Waters