Moonlight like ice, glinting frost, I wish we had cold weather. Walking round a frosty graveyard looking at ice crystals on bushes and grasses. Little pawprints trailing across the lawn, glittering as a stray moonbeam passes through wilting leaves.
A gravestone sits sideways to all the other ones. Because it’s occupant was said to be the local witch, wise woman, healer, giving remedies that were beyond the wit of man? Perhaps that moon shone down on her once, on her cottage surrounded by herbs, witch hazel, foxgloves, woody nightshade.
Don’t move, just listen, hear the rustle of bat’s in the belfry, feel the crunch of ice under your hand. Its All Hallows Eve. Perhaps this is a dream about Molly Leigh, the Burslem witch.