Oak for your eyes. Heart made of stone.

Hands taut on the rein while the brown horse bears you down.

(Down, down, dilly down, down.)

(Ash and rue, rosemary and thorn)

Neither the chains nor

enchantments have changed you—

glamours are illusions.

The human skin beneath

(though grown chill), does not peel.

But seven years in Faerie

is hours enough to make strange.

Oak for your eyes. Heart made of stone.

Hands taut on the rein while the black horse bears you down.

(Down, down, dilly down, down.)

(Ash and rue, rosemary and thorn)

Old songs forecast a savior, but

who comes to pull a woman down?

Whatever prickles or fangs—

what fire or venom—wounds you—

what armor you grow in return—

oh, lady. You are expected

to be the one who can hold on

Oak for your eyes. Heart made of stone.

Hands taut on the rein while the roan horse bears you down.

(Down, down, dilly down, down.)

(Ash and rue, rosemary and thorn)

The winter chose wiser once

she learned to choose sisters.

Hands tremble on reins slick with sweating.

A real woman

would lift her sorry ass

off that pony

and get her job done.

Oak for your eyes. Heart made of stone.

Hands taut on the rein while the red horse bears you down.

(Down, down, dilly down, down.)

(Ash and rue, rosemary and thorn)

No.

This the path.

This the rein.

This the lolloping stride of your stalwart mare

rocking among the broad backs of the hellbound band.

No souls to sell save yours,

and no one is coming to spare.

Oak for your eyes. Heart made of stone.

Hands taut on the rein while the bay horse bears you down.

(Down, down, dilly down, down.)

(Ash and rue, rosemary and thorn)

Seven years in Faerie is long enough to grow strange.

You have learned the shape of the pricker-bush.

The spitting cat.

The firebrand.

Turned weird and wild

you will bloody hands as would grasp you.

Unfair but not untrue.

Oak for your eyes. Heart made of stone.

Hands taut on the rein while the grey horse bears you down.

(Down, down, dilly down, down.)

(Ash and rue, rosemary and thorn)

Maybe if there were a woman—

No.

Oak for your eyes. Heart made of stone.

Hands taut on the rein while the white horse bears you down.

(Down, down, dilly down, down.)

(Ash and rue, rosemary and thorn)

Seven years in Faerie has made you deep, pointed, and still.

No lover's hand will clutch a bridle that does not ring.

Which will not fall.

For Leah and Jaime

24 December 2007

23 July 2008