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Being MAG
Beneath a fairy circle
I lie safe,
coiled like a fern fiddle
unsprung
smiling under the roots
of my hidden hollow,
an uncarved cradle
of worms and minds;
one day
when the leaves put on
the colors of funeral pyres
and my burrow
becomes my barrow
I will sink, deep and dark,
into its warm, black soil,
drinking of rebirth
like melted amber
Oh, soft, sweet earth
with iron tang
spicing my skull,
in your arms
I am the loam-dweller.
© Anonymous
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