by Nick Gisburne
Her secrets spawn the deadly drug she craves,
With rhymes and roots found only after dark.
She ploughs a field of cold, forgotten graves,
And plants new life, each seed beside a spark.
Contorted creepers fight their sister selves.
The strongest, stripped, are ground to poison paste.
Her poultice, steeped in blood from slaughtered elves,
Is pure beyond the touch of human taste.
At last, her bottles, filled with sweet disease,
Are hurled to catch the morning’s murder tide.
Bewitched, they may, she hopes, somehow appease
The selkies, from whose anger she must hide.
Seduced, they sip her potions, warm and wild,
But still do not release her stolen child.
