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Prelude: A BRIDE SET FREE

How romantic, the fall, so far above the pleading waves.
The heights, the depth, to look the deep in eye and weep.
Air space between the lovers’ arc and shallow graves.
The tangible singsong of wedding bells and tragic leap.

Imagine it, the harp-like spray, the call of gulls, the fangs
that scared it up - the fade of white, of pearls and lace.
The cleft, the crags, the foaming ebb and flow, the overhangs,
the rage and misery one cursèd night, of love’s erase.

Romantic and tragic body of sea, a bride set free.
for she’d not live eternity of blood, thus spills her own.
He has no heart, but tears. Before his fate - a honeybee.
The heaviness of weight, the sea frothing with moans.

The scene has wings that fly and dive and sweetly catch
the widower’s debris. Invisible, the flight of ghostly light.
From precipice, how many tears do claw and scratch…
Hell laughs, but jealous witch wished bride to be first bite.

THE WITCH MUST DIE

From the bottom of the cliffs, she adjusts her foreboding veil.
Like a curtain of black lace, a headdress of a widow’s gloom,
She carefully lets it fall over her face; she’s back to tell her tale,
‘Her blonde-haired nemesis will find herself in a witch’s tomb!’

I leave to the imagination - did she walk a path, float, cling
to the rock face, with claws of rage. Innocence has left her.
Her ebon gown, once virgin white; her train like entrails bring
the swoosh of justice. A gift of blackest roses for the cur.

‘Could her love sketch each kiss the sharp rocks inflicted?’
The sea salt couldn’t cure the witch’s infection - the lapping
beast that helped to pin her beneath the waves. Conflicted
by an eternal life or wretched death, she chose the trapping

of a spoiled wedding gown, one that turned red as twilight.
Untypical to most spooks, she chooses the well lit room -
she wants the audience. The bastion gasps. The witch ignites
with mad laughter, she herself wears the proposal of a groom.

“Show yourself, Josette, to your beloved. You haven’t met.”
The head of the groom hangs. He can’t flee. He’s controlled.
With sudden forcefulness of the sea, the icy floor becomes wet.
Josette laughs, “Witch, you’ll never be carried over the threshhold!”

The headdress of the former fiancé begs to be lifted, betray
her new foundation. The dark cloud of revenge is stoked.
“All look on! Meet your fate! Her who killed me, I will slay!”
She shows her face as lightning ignites - the witch is smoked.

The lass is gone. No trace left. The vampire is gone too.
Everyone feels the coldness of the air but has forgotten
what happened. They feel they must visit the graves of two
lovers who died on their wedding day; and their misbegotten.
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