a fair young man, pixie-faced—
     nervous, or still
casting off his dreaming
     in this early hour.

a stout blonde, green-caped—
     a flower wreath
hanging from her purse—
     in the company of like-hearted friends.

a silver couple, smartly dressed—
      on holiday
          from Manchester,
sharing the table seat.
     “We have witches of our own,”
          she says,
     her voice flinty and playful.

all of us, pilgrims.