by Nick Gisburne
Three witches, on a foggy winter’s eve,
Three followers of cold, malignant light,
Advance towards the hovel they believe
Conceals a stolen sibling from their sight.
The shameful impregnation, by a god,
Infecting her, defenceless, with a child,
Elicits bleak acknowledgement, a nod,
That only those who fight him are defiled.
Too late, they find the wickedness within.
A baby, screaming, shivering, unclean.
Their sister, sick, disgusted in her skin,
Bewildered by the trauma of the scene.
The fingers of the witches clutch and curl.
The bastard son, a god, becomes a girl.
