![]() She imagined the mole down there, snuffling its way through solid darkness, hunting food, searching for its own death. ![]() A shudder as the molecatcher mimed eating the writhing pink meat, but she always stayed to watch him push his metal rod into the earth then poke the worm into the hole he had created. She hadn’t for as long as she remembered. His lips, ever wet, like his dosed worms, moved but she heard nothing. And chuckled when he held it towards her and she jumped away with a silent shriek. He grinned as he delicately dipped stubby fingers into his baked beans tin and plucked out a strychnine-coated worm from its wriggling friends and relatives. She had often watched the molecatcher, a round man with a pointed face, and thought he looked like a mole. Moles were difficult to get rid of poison one, another moved into its lodgings. The girl smiled nervously at the thought as she hurried from grave to grave. ![]() The small mounds of dark earth scattered around the graveyard looked as though the dead were pushing their way back into the living world. Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers Lay it where Childhood’s dreams are twined ![]()
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