Nymph of the plaited tresses,
your eyes gleam like garnet honey
melted on a summer day.
You tread as if a butterfly,
and your words flit
with the gentle silk of caressing wings.
Your sequestered island
rises like a temple from the barren sea,
with those winding crystal creeks
and sprigs of tiny wild celery.
Yet to me it is a stony cell
a cruel and craggy rock
jutting like a scar from the blue;
and your lingering
makes a wicked binding of my breath
that can’t be quelled.
The isle is a desert,
despite the lush of all your groves
I have to say I hate it.
And you,
ensnaring banshee,
you set my skin to crawl
each dreaded night
when with those masterful hands
you drag me through your grotto’s door
in to that bitter dance I must endure.
