Meddling/Homespun/Darkness
A trilogy of poems on the dangers of dark deals
Meddling
To Hampton woods, astride a mere,
whistling through the leaves.
A wife grows desperate as castle walls
quickly shrink around her.
By bubbling broth, and Raven’s howl,
she feels the King’s approach
bend through dawns thicket.
She whispers,
‘A meddling’s to be done,
the end has now begun.’
A King alone in darkening forest,
a sight seldom seen.
Desperation leads to rash choices,
leads to Witch’s doors
skin crawls, each arm’s hair
standing tall in tepid air.
His royal stature broken,
an outsider holds the cards.
She croaks,
‘A meddling is required,
state your desires.’
The King swallows hard,
speaks his business.
A wish for an heir,
a wish for an unbroken seed,
a wish to ensure the future
of his realm.
The Witch unblinks,
a deep cackle leaves
her broken lips.
She sighs,
‘A meddling most grand,
give me your sweet hand.’
With a slice of a knife,
royal blood spills
into the hag’s broth.
A stirring and sprinkling of
ancient oils.
A muttering of foreign
incantations.
The king drinks up
what’s proffered.
She laughs,
‘A meddling is done,
the end has now begun.’
Chorus
Kings and Queens,
Witches and Wild-folk,
Curses and Flames.
Broken Prophecies,
and Rare Forks
on Formidable Roads.
Heroes and Gallantry,
Sacrificed for Love.
Homespun
A furious storm dashes
castle cobblestones.
A frightful night to be
homeward bound.
The errant ones feast as
her appetite wains,
unborn child facing
an ugly future.
To join their silent
siblings once more.
Yet the King may return,
with renewed tidings.
A remedy and
a sealed deal,
a dubiously dark contract.
Inviting a putrid
stain upon them.
Cancerous Hearth.
For in dusk lie tricksters,
weaving malignancy.
‘Hurry on King,
hurry on home.’
‘Progeny comes with a price.’
Chorus
Kings and Queens,
Witches and Wild-folk,
Curses and Flames.
Broken Prophecies,
and Rare Forks
on Formidable Roads.
Heroes and Gallantry,
Sacrificed for Love.
Darkness
He’ll never see his love,
the price of life’s admission
is paid with eternal darkness.
‘Damn that woman of the woods,
and the wretched bargains of
fictitious Demons.’
He’ll never watch an Osprey
pick a Pike from a
rushing reservoir.
‘Damn that miserly bitch,
and the game she plays
with our prince.’
He’ll never watch a
Moon Dragon perch
at Horizon’s window.
‘What fools we are for
signing our names at
the foot of dark sorceries.’
He’ll never see a Nirn
take their final trip
into Kindraire stars.
C.B
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All the best, your humble poet, Charlie.
