Love Spell

Love Spell. By Pippa Gray He's the soul for which I wait. I'll feed him darkest sabre grapes and lead him to a bed of moss, with velvet spread and moonstained cloths. His sweet and salty skin I'll bathe in goats milk and black forest oats. His will shall loose with every sip of rose leaf tea with calamus. Not king, nor prince, or knight or knave, I chant his name just all the same. And long I’ve gazed and fed the flames and twisted grasses to his shape. Oh, I could reel him in like cheated fish, hooked on twisted lines of fibs and dragged to heel to suffocate, a'feared to meet his father’s fate. But that’s for others, darker still, who wield their wallets, pockets filled with hypnotising sparkly bait and wicked lures of titles gained. No, I need only breathe and sing into sad willows round his home, a perfumed mist of liquorice, the musk of me, and cinnamon.