oh little you,
much of glory
and downy dew,

do break the chasm:
darkness' fauld;
igniting passion
in cannies auld;

thy bitter petals
coalesced o' fear
that sting as nettle
when hand is near:

release as doe,
thy urgent bride–
to flowers shew;
in crimson dyed.

Did you hear
the groans of
rivers floating with
bodies torn asunder
by cannies of sharks

how thier cries
are faint & eerie
become moans
of children
dear to the heart
of the forest &
her wild

how their mothers
are forest trees
bent into brooms rode
by witches of whim

& how their bones
are on a quest for flesh
lean enough to cloak
their nakedness.