HARROW’GLIN by Gary Murphy
The black gulls of The Cape squall and shuffle amid branches in the nook,
While petrified faces turn askew to face the slate sky,
And screams like claxons and sirens charge and drift through wires overhead and look,
As you turn to run faster and harder towards that famous lie.
A harrowed, bedraggled old crone, her mane like an unkempt nest,
Stands beneath a ripped corner of the Pines, a grin etched as reward for ye toil and disdain,
In her dishevelled, stained gown of clothes, diseased or just ill at best…
…as Dark manifests in white plumes to confront the gathered few that remain.
Suddenly, the long, tethered and barnacled hand reaches outwards to sweep,
When it grabs at random stroke, to equal those actions of the falcon or crow,
And take the possessed witch into its breast, stashed there to keep,
For tears laced with blood are a heartbeat away, amid that organ fit to burst and blow.
Here, those of us with a breath regroup and return home, to keep warm before sleep,
As the fires caught between our breast do rekindle and galvanize again,
The Witch of the Cape took that fatal leap…
…never, never to be seen again, given back to The Dark, given back unto them.

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