Old Gods of an Unsettled Isle

Limbo has let herself , sprawl heavy

on the side of this unsettle isle

She crawls sleepily , rested handles

white domed steps down the hillside

Limbo whispers sweet , through cane

into cradled baskets of too-soon grapes

Be still she says , it is not yet your time

Wait here with me

I am new, in the land

of old gods and soft clay

where pre-noon wine

pressed on the end of an august-day

and dripped sweetfull

into heavy basement pots

spills red into my cheeks.

The brown paper fumes

of earth coated smoke

held between lips, yellow hard

hands the air with

the flavour of sleep I try to forget.

Forged and folded so

then forgotten, or remoulded

I found myself, on fumes

in the bowels of an old god.

They will not venture

into old grown caves

for the years of youth

spent in the dark

They wont let waste

of water, in pools, jacuzzis

for the memory

of a dry mouthed love.

They will not eat

the lemons, but let them rot

when fallen from the tree

fresh counted freedoms

They will watch

washing line rustle

leave little favours, or tricks

and judge if you are worthy.

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Magda is a poet and witch, read more of her work.

Stay updated with her musings on folklore, science and the things in between by following her instagram: @Xan6ua