Witch

In her castle of cages,
the continual trilling
of songbirds…
No need to prick eyes —
they sing so piercingly
of what they lack,
must draw on memory,
inner oracle, to lift
into vibrato flights.
Each maiden sees
her image multiplied
a thousand times.
Dirty claws sprinkle
song-seeds, place pearls
in bowls of water:
trembling moonstones
slake peerless throats.
At midnight, bats whizz
from tower and turret —
inside-out birds
encoding space with
glass notes: a pitchless
descant above the music
that never stops.