A Witch

[groberts01]

Edit 2:
There is a hill bowed under clouds, alone,
and woven with roots, covered with wild hair of
tall grass, brown moor moss, forget-me-nots.
When night came she arrived on bare feet
and walked a slow path upwards; wandering. 'Till
the swooping sky started crying for her.

A spirit, witch, fairy; she gave the clouds
her poetry, exchanged for grey fog,
their rumbling stole the hunger from her belly
then from her chest, and used it to pack the air
with thunder. Starry black fists shook her shoulders
until she was a body as empty as a new coffin.

This way her life's crack-bam and zitz-zic-schrak
cut through the night as blades of lightning
and spilt into a storm with the look of boiling car-oil
and stirred the sky into a battlefield, a playground, a murderer.

So the eye of the storm dropped to her knees,
lips blue and flat-lining, lids half-closed.
She pressed the length of her body
still and white to the waves of sodden ground.
Though storms will only last so long, time passed
and she grew colder.

Edit:
There's a hill bowing alone under clouds,
woven with roots and long hair
styled with wild grasses and wildflowers:
shrinking violets, knapweed and forget-me-nots.

Come night, she arrived with bare feet
and tip-toed a slow, wandering, upwards path,
then drew back her shoulders, and sighed,
Hard. The breath left her lungs like an ass
from a dirty cage, and the hill wore the sky
as a big cape. The fabric swelled
and started crying

for her. So the clouds took her poetry
and hurried to replace it with grey fog.
Next, their rumbling stole her hunger,
reaping her belly then her treasure chest.
Starry black fists digested it as it climbed,
packed it into the air, as thunder,
until she was a body as empty as a new coffin.

Like this her life’s crack-bam and zitz-zic-schrak,
cut open the night as great blades of lightening
and spilt into a storm like boiling car-oil.
At each shot of the starter-pistol
races began between frights of tearing wind
which rode as horses across the flashing night.
This was her manic rapture. It stirred the sky
into a battlefield, a playground, a murderer.

So the storm's eye dropped to her knees soundlessly,
blue lips flat-lining, lids half-closed.
She pressed the length of her body,
still and white to the waves of sodden ground.
And though a storm will only last so long,
time passed, and she grew colder.


Original:
There's a hill bowed alone under clouds,
Woven with roots and the long hair
of wild grasses, wildflowers and forget-me-nots.
Come night, she arrived with bare feet
To tip-toe a slow, wandering path,
Until she reached the peak.
Then shedrew back her shoulders, and sighed,
Hard. So the breath left her lungs like an animal
From a dirty cage. The hill wore the sky
As a big cape,
And it began to cry for her.

So the clouds took her poetry
and hurried to replace it with grey fog.
Next, their rumbling stole her hunger,
Reaping first her belly then her heart.
Starry black fists digested it as it climbed,
They packed it into the air, so it became the thunder.

Like this her life’s crack-bam and zitz-zic-schrak,
Cut open the night as great blades of lightening,
And spilt into a Storm like boiling car-oil.
At each shot of the starter-pistol
Races began between frights of tearing wind
Which rode as horses across the flashing night.
A mania like rapture stirred the sky
Into a battlefield, a playground, a murderer.

So the Eye dropped to her knees soundlessly,
Her blue lips flat-lining, her lids half-closed.
She pressed the length of her body,
Still and white to the waves of sodden ground.
And though a storm will only last so long,
Time passed, and she grew colder.

And as the storm rose up
she started to die.