The children scream and rush inside the house To huddle in a group with bated breath; And old wives cross themselves and talk of death And vampires following the flying mouse That haunts the twilight sky. They call their men Who arm themselves for battle with this foe, A ghostly battle in their minds and then They talk of witches as they dodge and throw. A scrap of bleeding velvet tries to wing Its way into the darkened belfry, where A weazened silken infant lies, a thing Of pity calling: "Mother . . . Mother!" there. They found her dead beside a churchyard tree, Her swollen breasts with wings veiled womanly. |