The priest with the candle

awaited the knock

from the maid

on the door of the vestry

she had come here to call

after the ball

into the church by the west wing

with the black rose

the same

not another

plucked from the grave

of somebody’s mother

to give to her lover

the heat on her cheek

her nerve it did falter

he took her by the hand

lead her to the alter

as the new moon did rise

hounds bayed at her cries

the baby was placed in the cradle

The priest at the font

did prepare to baptise

‘in Christ shall this child

stay from harm’

it was only the Mother

and perhaps another

who saw the hairs

on the holy man’s palm.

(Footnote: A warewolf is the son of a Priest born on New Years Day)