A howling dog,
piercing the solitude
with musical undulations.
A door red-marked with warning,
even though the Great Morality is now dead.
A jar on the threshold,
full of unctuous oils.
Fingers tracing the etched sigils.
Scenting garlic, aconite,
belladonna, mandrake.
An un-resistible invitation to
anoint the wetness of a mouth
with witches’ ointment. 

Crossing the threshold where
spinning threads stretch
in the in-between spaces.
Raw wool into water.
Swelling fibres.
Water staining with
the accumulation of a life

waiting beyond the gate,
weaving the bereft fibres of a mind
into the weft of new cloth. 
The fabric as soft as newborn skin.
I praise her name,
I will anoint myself
again and again.
Drench the fabric of my memory in her oils
until they come for me and burn that cloth to ash.