Duennes

They say you are mischievous;
just being a child,
who died before being baptised.

They say you have no face
just a black moon head
and a small round mouth.

They say your feet are turned
backwards, forever looking
back to what could have been.

At dusk’s slow dimmer switch,
they say never shout a child’s name
in the street or yard or square

as you steal the name. You
sing a haunting lullaby
for the child to follow.

They say with the child you play
leading them astray into the forest,
a silent witness, as he is lost.

They say you are doomed to roam,
an empty shadow, whimpering.
Looking for the love of your mother.