by Nick Gisburne
The thick, infected odour of decay
Contaminates the corners of the mind
But he has tracked the trail of its bouquet
A tang of tortured spirits, intertwined
The ice cannot confound him, and he waits
Her letters make it clear this was the place
A tapestry of clues and signs and dates
Have led him to this long-forgotten space
He rises as the line begins to twitch
The shadow of a demon, come to play
In seconds he has hauled the evil bitch
Beyond the hole, too stunned to slip away
The Catcher claims another deadly prize
And smiles to see the terror in her eyes
