Goit

A bloodstain among the trees. A patch of rust at the fence. A she-devil summoned by starlight and leftovers, she brings dues long overdue. The tinge in the tap-water. That will stay. The spores in the plaster. The same. The elm will tap and beckon on glass. Underground, streams from Black Moor slowly nudge your houses into the beck. Pictures will soon skew, doors won’t close, slates will loosen and slide knifey-knifey into front lawns. Let’s hope your children are forever haunted by the blue and orange ghosts of kingfishers.