The woodwife fled
when none could see
and went where none
but she could go.
Green were her sleeves
in the howling snow, out
from the halls of Kingswinter
when no moon shone.
Ashen she was as the grey
before break of day
from living where no fire
could stay, or sun's ray pierce.
She’d come to learn
the celestial dance, practice
the arts with a man of air
for the time that never came.
She tired of the silken crucible,
cameos cut with quicksilver scissors
and learned instead to laugh confetti
from chains of handfast paperdolls
tossing their snow as she ran, to fall
on dead hearths, blow for eternity
round empty halls, behind the cursed
blind windows of Kingswinter.
Based on a dream. We all have our own heroes.
Image: Morgan le Fay, by Anthony Frederick Augustus Sandys
[Public domain], via wikimedia commons