Sips in the false light of
Uncanny lanterns that don’t
Flicker when the draft creeps from the
Orchard where the witch waits among the
Galas and the Winesaps
In one withered hand a yellow apple with
Brown freckles at the crown
The inevitable knife in the other
Shadow billows from her distend jaw like a
Molting reptile
The pool laps at the cabin perimeter
Your teacup to your lips without a wobble
Sip, a loud suck of air and hot dandelion water
Touch of honey from the orchard bees
It will not be the hag and her knife that do us in tonight,
Nor the nightshade pinch in our kettle.
One day we will dream of these fields
In the blackness of our tomb deeper than
Buried kings and foiled grave robbers
Before that shadow darkens what is left of our minds.
@kiyyascribbles
