by Nick Gisburne
The Crinn will slither, closer than you think,
To tempt you with the smoky scent of sin.
They long to lure you, bleary, blurred, to drink
The stolen starlight shining on their skin.
Mosquito mead, with mushrooms in the brew.
A pinch of pansy, petals pulled and crushed.
September berries, shimmering with dew.
And time, because no cunning can be rushed.
For those who brave the shadows of the wood,
Beyond the dark, the dusk, when witches rise,
No good will come. No kindness ever could,
For these are folk the Fey themselves despise.
They slip inside the corners of your mind.
Beware the sweet seductions of their kind.
