Our road has become a boneyard
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.
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, maurahigh.com.