Knocking At the Door

Knocking at the Door There was a time when hunger dwelt the land. She who has no pity, left her mark, the mark of death. I was one of many that hunted the hare, whose empty belly rumbled, whose pale skin hung like a cloak. Humbled this moment lies a great wolf, Fierce frantic, writhing in terror, tied down with rope. But our friend is only a character . Upon hearing an enchantment..... Who’s afraid of the? Who’s afraid of the? You couldn’t catch pigs could you? Would you? In mine comfort sleep will I ever see you again? Beware the Gypsy’s gaze, alike a starving rat. Imagining not compassion, But a content satisfying loneliness How cheery time was when the great black pot, bubbled ! and spat sharply. Like the wolf snarling, snapping , staring, who’s that?.... Knocking at the door ! Hendrifton Farm Christmas 09. An old gypsy woman actually knocked at the back door, the moment Carrington finished this poem.