This land is filled with ravens’ nests,
forests of bells, here,
at your feet
so purple deep
no one dares touch
Don’t turn your head back towards sea.
Afar, bonxies* feast on your fears
in ravaged skies…
They call you “rogue”,
lost inside dusk;
Don’t ask petrels for directions.
And when your eyes turn into rust,
raven claws snatch your will to smile –
tear to pieces light in iris, your fragile wings on your shloulders.
Let me gather all your feathers tarnished with red.
In Arcania, no cliff hanger;
we’re free to love,
run inside waves that never sting
or burn our skin,
as we drown our tears
© Nat Hall 2010