is a quiver

through the rotted stake. Then stake and bones fall together

in a little puffing of dust.

Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down

behind the procession,

now well along the Wayfleet road.

He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His

fingers blow out like smoke,

his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign-post, in

the pouring rain,

he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down

the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. It

flickers

among the trees. He licks out and winds about them. Over,

under,

blown, contorted. Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following

smoke.

There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear,

and after it laughter -- laughter -- laughter, skirling up to the

black sky.

Lightning jags over the funeral procession. A heavy clap

of thunder.

Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels.

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