Dirty work is demanded
at the Yaga’s place
if you’re to be granted a horse
that can carry the weight of a dream.
Her wooden hut squats in the trees like a sail
It bends and sings with the wind
Creaks and sways and you are shaken
Upon this island of plenty.
Hag comes, guffaws at your stumblings, croaks,
‘The medicine is right here’, (she jabs a soily finger)
‘Awaiting the mortar and pestle,
Awaiting the one who knows which parts to choose,
The one who knows how to grind’. Continue reading