frame #1

in the dark
midst the mist
secluded by fog
the whine of bugs
I found her at the back
of manical shouts and laughs
never far from putting her pen to paper

buzzard songs circling of flies
the fire around 9:45 1945
she almost consumed
fully
by the flames

her dark mementoes
left about
and dark sullen
coldspot
in the castle

two and fro
between
the mad kingdoms
breeding a myth much unfortunate
and untrue

committed
pills were strewn
taken in
before Plath too
the crow slips through
the frame
threading the needle
it stings
it isn't ready
but it sings

she a myth combined with torture
suffering and much happiness
a quick wit to sargesons envy and
gladness

here I am dark stained
at the scene of the turn of the century
where owls do cry at the edge of the alphabet
daughter buffalo maybe somewhere with mona minim and the smell of the sun
living in the manitoto seeing faces in the water
dreaming of the Carpathians
magic will embalm her
as new Zealand land can claim
no other author
worthy of such humour
and such pain