your touches
your
--drink
to drink of yours
--to drink
--to drink
- Anna Glazova, 'Solo'

Beatha

Dear one, you have chosen unwisely.

White-armed, wan roses in your cheeks, moonshine does you no justice. And sun-starved, hankering for the feast of morning, warm breath that boughs lean toward, too-trusting you have let yourself be consumed.

Their kind are fair and unnatural. The earth from which flourish all things rejected them, turned them to roaming, arrested scavengers. You do not know their limitless desires -- how they swarm. There are no battlements strong enough. No cracks they will not nest in.

They will use you poorly: it is in their nature, as it is yours to recognise their danger.

Out of the grave, granddaughter. Come back into the light.

THE END

21 November 2008