The church is still and day bright.
Sun glints from the clock’s saintly blue.
But for the solitary holly tree amongst the graves
there are few signs of that macabre landscape
where Dee and Kelly raised a pauper
from his grave to seek the location of wealth
and received premonitions about each person
in the parish who would die in the coming year,
where a minister and wise-man
kept vigil one Christmas Eve and saw
in procession the spectres of each person
in the parish who would die in the coming year.
There are few signs of where the black dog was laid.
A single holly tree, graves, but no written stone
or evidence of offerings of milk or raw meat
to withhold the portents of an otherworldly beast.
These seem but shiver-stories now,
tales for the hearth fire and a winter of snow
as sunlight glints upon the clock
and daylight keeps its bright and bluey hue.