Ferocious, combative and, as usual, uninvited
The Witch-Wind bustles into my
Pale world of blue, iron-flat skies.
She is familiar, perhaps, but unexpected:
Travelling far and alcohol fast, whim-bent,
From the Marsh of Short, Black Sleep,
Putting to flight fright-eyed silver birds
From dreams of folded, twisted fields;
Shaking dragon-boned thoughts –
Jumbled and unpolished –
From pulled-thin, flamenco layers
Of sun-treated, rag-edged clouds.
How can I hold any hate for
Such awesome, wicked beauty