_(with the twist: “Come Together”)_
Miss Harriet Hobb was a difficult child,
Unruly in manner, unkempt and wild.
She never came promptly when called by her name,
But dawdled and drifted and played at a game.
Her parents would summon her softly at first,
Then louder (for Harriet’s hearing was worst).
But Harriet laughed with a terrible glee:
“They’ll come if they want me, they always find me.”
One evening at dusk, when the lamplighters stirred,
Her mother called out, but no Harriet heard.
Her father called too, with a voice like a bell,
But Harriet whispered, “They’ll manage quite well.”
She wandered instead to the edge of the Green,
Where shadows grew longer than shadows should be seen.
The air felt peculiar, the hedgerows too still,
As though something waited just over the hill.
Then softly, so softly, a rustle began,
A sound like a footstep without any man.
A whisper repeated her name in the air,
Not kindly, nor cruelly, but terribly there.
“Come to get her…” it murmured, with delicate grace,
As though it were smiling without any face.
“Come to get her…” it echoed, a fraction too near,
A voice made of twilight, of hush, and of fear.
But then, with a shift like the turning of weather,
The whisper grew plural: “Come… together.”
The shadows around her drew closer in pairs,
As though they were climbing invisible stairs.
They gathered beside her, behind her, before,
A silent assembly that asked for no door.
And Harriet, foolishly proud of her wit,
Stepped closer to see where the whisper might fit.
They found her next morning asleep by the stile,
Her shoes full of thistles, her face in a smile.
She never again let her parents call twice,
For something else answered, and wasn’t as nice.
So children, attend to the lesson we set here:
When someone calls gently, you’d best lend an ear.
For those who ignore every summons and letter
May find many voices will come… together.