Pointed hats
There are too many pointed hats
too many black hats reaching for the stars.
The almost full moon is asleep on a cloud
and lights shine where a twig broom
made holes in the umbrella night.
A grovelling mist sweeps over the moors
saunters like a crowd of ghosts
across brown leafed roads and twisted lanes.
Pendle is awake, her spirit sisters roam
unleashed across shadowed grasses.
Moonlit streams wake sleeping fish and
old owls stare wide eye, from hollowed trees.
Black cats smile from slated roofs
creep from secret places.
There is an age old mystery seeping underfoot
it clings with dewy frost on soggy soles
Yawning from the valley, a mystery of magic
flashes like lightening, tingles rusted gates
strikes the tremble of this hallowed eve.
Sally James
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