“A witch is more lovely than thought in the mountain rain”

–

My language machine has rusted
elements and black mould. Shut up
the screen and have no more toxic
doses, ignore the buzzing flies

on various empty ice creams.
I can smell mildew soaking my
semantic pillows. I hear her
pen scratching for miles of heathland.

I pull the ripcord over and
over but nothing’s happening
then everything suddenly stops.
I’m too late and no longer care

for the strange way I seem to friends.
Many hundreds of pupate words
have burst from my fingers in her
gaze and honour upon my throat.

The rain which appears throughout life
and reappears like a candle
flutters, appears and she is there
standing with her fellow witches

in a graveyard. I love her style
of fighting. She stands there and wins
against the wind, is motionless.
her presence maketh my thoughts die