And his long bony grey fingers
Began to pick and scrape at the edges of her mind,
her garden
She could feel his bleakness, his dark misery, his death,
She knew he was coming
He scratched at the gate, tried to slither through her hedgegrow, built and grown with
deep love and hard labour.
She hated him and his sloth and his
bitterness.
He had killed her once , or so he thought
Grey death fingers.
She became wild eyed , ran frantically up and down the boundaries
of her blessed garden,
Searching for help.