|
Isobel |
She wears her soul
on the surface.
Fire is her brand,
it settles on fair skin—
scotch and skim milk,
freckles and raw flame.
Piper plays her song.
Its sound is her scent.
She leaves her besom
beside her sleeping husband—
he dreams beneath cool deep lochs
in the shallows of a burning bed.
She waltzes across threshold
with one leg raised,
with one hand on her head,
casting deep blue runes as she goes.
Twenty-six eyes stare black
bruises on a starless night.
She need not care,
reflecting her own light—
she kisses this abyss
and runs
—now a moon mad hare
for a quicksilver spell.
copyright 2014
William
Crawford |
