Plan for our death

On the long lane out of Hallaton I spotted death heading for someone else.

I pulled my head in while he passed, drawing a springe,

whose stock was cloud, jaws were blasted beech, and tarmac was his plate.

I asked if he would come for me, not yet of course, when we were slept like spoons, to save us all the waste of time.

His answer was a spookish draught that loosed the last wytch-leaf along the tump, and danced it in the dark.

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