She jumps like a graceful pulse point,
feet fleeting over the crooked flagstones and the
thistles of Marble Town.
There passes another slab, a
monolith to the dead
embedded with cracks left by the living.
Creepers steal her stilts and pull at the cloth.
"Fall! Fall, Sally!"
Their silent screams are nothing
but the snatch of rags in the weeds.
"Fall! Fall!" they chant, and her
Promenade is barred by the briers set before her in fields,
a thousand snakes laid out below like a bed
of pumpkin vines.
Then she sees him, rising out of the earth like sharp smoke,
a blend of wicked power and
delight in the dark
braided like twine with a spark of good
that sets him ablaze every year.
Her heart melts and her stitches blister in that fire,
just like the creepers snatch at her when she runs.
She is finally being pulled down.
"Fall, Sally," they say.
"The fire will catch you."