Knocking at the Door

Written by: carrington marshall

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.