She could not remember how she arrived

at the house

She wasn't cold 

But, perhaps a little damp

She looked down, and wiggled her toes

The varnish chipped & blackened

Then looked up at the wooden door

painted silver by moonlight

In her palm was a sixpence

It was warm and shone brightly

She glanced over her bruised shoulder

to where the well was a silhouette 

There was something swaying

in its shadows

But, still, she thought of throwing it in

And yet, the door was right in front of her

She could hear its gentle hum

But, also, a hint of uncomfortable mumbles

 

Too many broken dreams

unpick mental seams

She smiled. Her Mother

 

The door creaked

The well beckoned

And the wind whispered through her hair

A lullaby, or an urban myth?

Nothing was as it seemed

But she always knew that

 

Even before the sixpence