.
Hair the colour of Ravens,
skin the colour of Crows,
eyes the colour of Rooks,
somehow it just flows,
as she walks
     down the path
               like a bride,
with the sway
     of the sultry,
and the smile
                     of the Huntress.
Her way lined
by the bowed heads
of willows,
                   meandering,
with the feint ******
of water bubbling
     over pebbles,
from the mountain stream
that wends in consort
and chimes
        with the bells on her toes.
Her breath, mist
in the morning air,
as she seeks her prey,
     a victim of lust,
with no pardon,
mossy rocks glide by
          as her pace slows,
dew soaking her feet,
     dawn glade,
                          the jaws of her trap.



© Pagan Paul (17/08/18)