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.