I’ve wasted seven bags of salt;
a handful flung for each small spill,
supposedly keeping the devil at bay.
My granny said I should!
I’ve lost the chance to meet my fortune,
all because of old wive’s tales:
I’ll never venture past the garden gate
if the thirteenth falls on Friday in the month.
I’ve followed folklore’s fussy warning
and spent several silly hours looking daft;
dodging the cracks in the pavements
and hammering horseshoes to my lintel.
Yes, I know that it is true; superstitions
have made me act foolish, but the teachings
of old must surely have merit and what
dangers may lurk if I dare to ignore…
©Cindy Taylor 2008