by Nick Gisburne
I follow her, the demon in the trees.
An ancient wood, but here her name is new.
The stench of sickness, poisoning the breeze,
Is all I need to know the creature. You.
They feared you, but they fought you, to the last,
Resisting death on this, their final day.
A clearing, and the crater of a blast,
A long-forbidden weapon of the Fey.
But even this could barely touch your tail.
Perhaps, for some, it bought a breath of time.
The terror of defiance, doomed to fail,
No match for you, a vixen in her prime.
Of all the dark disguises from your box,
What made you kill these fairies as fox?
