My mother met me in the clearing of
A verdant hill, and wearing weeds of love
She schooled me how to scribe these very lines.
She told me her mistrust of metric feet,
That every word must fall upon the beat
In order so the incantation shines.
Like Hecate to the sisters of the weird
Mum wasn’t, yet the purpose I had feared
Obscurely looms as vapor from red wines.
Innocuous she seemed in sunlight fair,
The beams reflected on her auburn hair,
But her design was one that undermines.
Therefore I concentrate with all my might
To rub this apparition from my sight.