I’m not scared of negotiating with the dead.
In this spectred Isle
There are ways of seeing memories
of the lost melted into air,
There are ways of seeing Mrs Hurst, dancing
on a cold mountain,
There are ways of seeing a headless horseman
through the mist in the mirror.
At the break of dark
in grey granite haunted houses
I hear a swift pure cry
and I breathe in.
I am the visionary on the secret path to
Calling a dead man and
writing down the bones.
‘Tis to die for.