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Poem

It is whispered in the delta blues, a fierce burning sound
That moves up from the waters edge and drifts and swirls around;
And snakes lithely through the grass and weaves through the trees,
For driving down the strongest men on cartilage-ravaged knees.

In the lemon groves where germinates the womb of bitter fruit
Giving birth to tangled mandrake plants, tart and sour at root;
Crackles the taste of a vampires’ kiss that curls up the cyanosed toes
Telling rumoured morbid tales of black souls that no one knows.

On the death clock strike of twelve a putrid gas, a humid swell,
Rises mist-like from the earth in a pandemic glimpse of hell,
Then the wraith levitates like a witch in the wood and they say if she points at you
Her song sucks the soul out the drums of the ears until all life is through.

It is whispered in frightened tones that the siren she sings a siren song,
That claws men from their lovers’ beds, even if they have done no wrong,
She will break the heart like kindling, and boil the eyes in swampland oil,
And suck the bones until they crack, then return them to the soil.

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