A wild woman born
has many flagons of magic
(and still other dungeons
remain in cobweb clasps)
She can drop her spells as stepping stones to glamor
turning each lock behind
in the black labyrinth.
just floated serene and lonely
on coffee-brown water that lapped at my raft, unfelt.
I was not so much frightened as stricken with awe –
full of no earthly sensation
but the rushing of time, propelling me on and on.
Then at some exact moment – the slate horizon
cracked like a splintering egg-shell
and strange orange light bled through the fissures of dark.
It was not yet my time.
I refuse to vanish or set
when gravity tugs me to earth
in a blaze of gore or glory –
to wane to nothingness beyond
a slice of ashen promise –
And I will not slide quietly by
a masculine smothering of power –
for the damage will already be done.
Have you seen how moonlight blazes so hard
it slips beyond any brute shadow?
(Painting: Victor Florence Pollett)
This is the womb of the world
where two seas collide
at a hammock of land
and bony rocks arch
in the jet blood-black spray. Three
mythical crone stones –
who see what sharp lips never
tell – still watch through
their ageless snake hair for the
goings of they that
once crawled from their legs in the
primeval salt-dawn of time.