This is for all those sweet, those silly girls
Who painted up their eyes and lips and cheeks,
And sallied forth into the sparkling night
(Short skirts, crop tops, spike heels, dishevelled hair)
Intent on mischief, laughter, dancing, fun.

There was a time when I was one of them;
But luckier than them, I came back home,
A bit the worse for wear, a little drunk,
A little sick, sometimes a little bruised;
But nothing that a good sleep couldn’t cure.

These girls came home (if they came home at all
And weren’t found stark and cold in the waste grounds
And alleys) changed beyond recall;
Never again to know that careless joy,
That freedom to be silly, to be young.

I may not curse him, by the threefold law;
But ask you, Mother, in your winter guise,
The hooded crone, the washer at the ford,
The blue-faced strider of the barren hills,
Exultant glutter of the raven’s maw,
Girdled with dead men’s entrails, hung with skulls,
To wreak your vengeance on that greedy wretch
Who took these innocent sweethearts for his prey;
Transform his blood to venom in his veins;
Make each breath choke his lungs with acrid smoke;
Turn his limbs leaden and his shrivelled heart
(So hard already) into molten iron.

Comfort the victims and avenge the dead;
And pour his poison over his own head.