You will know the house,
Caught up in a spell of tales played out for a century or more
Within earshot of whispering catacombs
‘*** mortuis in lingua mortua’
You can’t miss it –
Architecturally complex, ornate with ormolu,
Elevated, enigmatic, a work of art.
You’ll be enchanted
But take heed, its façade will beguile you.

There is no sweetness of honeysuckle,
No singing of ascending larks to embolden the heart.
The plot is strewn with hen-bane, stinging nettles, snakeroot.
Generations tell of a skinny hag feeding on innocence,
A path scattered with ashes of children
Whisked away with a broom of silver.

Don’t dare to stray beyond its palisade of porous bones.
Don’t bide your time admiring its guilded thistle.
Appreciate if you will, this well-crafted masterpiece from several angles,
then make a hasty escape to Viktor’s Great Gate at the end of the walk.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

impressions left upon ground
digging deep into the earth
walk on the narrow path
journey alone, deep in the woods


warm air fills my lungs
                 deep breath in
and out
dandelion and snakeroot
    tickle my nose
and the ever present scent of
pine is underneath


             on then
first step          over fallen log
which has just begun to rot
rest
sip  fresh water and have
a protein bar


up ahead lie two gardens--
carefully planted
one yields potatoes, one nectar
a place for butterflies to dance


walk by the stream
    then head past pavilion
          finally go towards the car
dream and wait for another Saturday

There she is
kneeling in the only temple
she believes worthy of her prayers -
with snakeroot as white
as her hands, pulling at the Earth
to make space for fall -
where it matters most
where everything matters most
to her, in the garden

the high priestess sits still
on her throne  
her mottled hands beginning to sprout veins
Like the roots of an ageless tree
her eyes sinking low to the earth, lids heavy with sleep
the abstract temple, mismatched in quilted sheets and mangled ceramic fragments
encompassing her victims, the children brothers Romulus and Remus
who play under a drizzled chorus of shattered glass
and winter hesitates as she raises her roots to a flame of Hell
fuels the pyre with white snakeroot and , suckling from the Jack-in the pulpit
feeds the ashen embers once again