I’m listening

           to night sounds in the castle:

           sand trickling in the hourglass,

           the drought’s eerie whistle,

           horses whinny in the yard.

Dump mortar and rock wall

           the womb of my nightmares.

           Thistle thorns in my eyes,

           tears of blood smudge

           lines on my true face,

butter cools in the larder waiting to melt in my mouth

            when the maid has had her rest

            when the cook is ready to rise

            when the husband won the war

            when the ghosts have settled.

I want one last kiss of life, a tattoo, a mark

            a stamp of a thistle, but

            from the slow wave of sleep

            there is no boat to take

            me home, no more awake.

I wash my hands - in blood - go off stage on a walk

            where the cat hunts the moonlight,

            the mouse forgotten, just as cursed -

            the forest takes our kingdom,

            and death is my lord.