Sisters on the Hill.

The click clack of ill fitting shoes
past my door
as they leave the general store
with foreign provisions
towards their high above
the rest of the world home,
where noone returns from,
they say . . .
the sisters with their
beautiful deserted bodies.

Home spun hats lost in time
around remarkable pale faces.
Eyes that might gaze
through a chink in heaven's curtain,
or hell thay say,
as they face the ascent
with indifferent humour.
Yet with them they take
to their lair in the clouds . . .
every good dream I have.