by Nick Gisburne
The seven slots arranged around her neck
Accept the seven keys of future sight.
Her servants, scowling, feverishly check
That every premonition spring is tight.
A secret sip of silver starts the dream,
And lubricates the cogwheels as they whir.
Absorbing electricity and steam,
Distorted visions flash and blend and blur.
In traces of tomorrow she can see
The fate of those who dare to plead and pray.
Their seven questions, one for every key,
Will bring them only darkness on this day.
Tomorrow, kings and criminals will die,
A trace of truth no doubting can defy.
