Rhiannon Dance: The Cabin

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Perched on a hill
inhaling the sea,
four years old
with a demon in me.

Druids and graves
enchanted by mist,
running through forests
Welsh air had kissed.

Fag ends and skag rocks,
sticky grey skies,
pounding the mountains,
to the Kestrel’s cries.

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Rhiannon Dance: Necrophagy I

 

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Singed tips of a wormed mass
fester beneath thatch and flake,
a face turns to dust as a thousand
electrifying ants crawl.

Arm raised to heaven and bereft
of any feeling; the monthly terror,
pulling at eye sockets and nerve endings
locusts and crickets festival.

Cricket bat racquet hand reaches uncertainly
for a link to cry for help,
useless digits blunder and surrender to
a swarm of wasps in my head.