top of page


Maura High

Our road has become a boneyard

for children—


skulls, skeletons

litter the verges,


stick out of the red clay, or lie

in untidy heaps.


The road has become a funeral

of all the ones we lost.



dear or not, the coffins, the black plumes,


the procession of ravens and pumpkin heads—

a masque of children


and parents trailing

their own famished ghosts and hobgoblins.


Every year, the same tricks.

Caw, caw.

Maura High lives in the Piedmont of North Carolina. For more on her poetry and publications, her community and environmental and arts interests, and her roots in Wales, see her website,

bottom of page