Famine Weavers

My grandmother saw them gather once,
their restless particles forming in fog.
Awakened by frost dressing rooftops
like a knocker-up tapping on glass.
Murmuring shades, ragged skeletal moths,
dancing slowly in hisses of gas light.
Grouped tight to keep the living out,
reflecting in mill windows and puddles.
Clogs echoing on wet cobblestones,
mee-maws hollowing into the night.

First published in the Live from Worktown Anthology #3: 2016