Morrigan

Mist seeps through my memory and the strangled
tunes of the dead rattle their breaking bones
treasure hoard or funeral pyre, I sit on skulls
drinking wine that was once angel blood, fresh
from wounds claws dug into to prise immortality
my beasts fetched my drink from the fields, the
corpses came of their own accord, I comb golden
curls off the mummified remains of my daughter,
dumb little bird, she could not handle my milky
poison, and so I tend things as barren Baroness
of the cavern behind the waterfall, Morrigan to
men, Slayer of Mine Enemies, Claimer of Spoils –
say my name and I descend like the stormy seas.