Jenny Hope
Riddle
I lick my face from the plate of the moon,
come clean to reflect on the fleece-white glow.
I’ve not time for sleep, much to do. Livestock
ought a hex or two; perhaps a visit.
Sailors curse me; at sea I cause a storm,
while on land if I hold straight, scare-wits
shiver. I speak with stark, ungodly cry,
run long bones ragged, cut through the parish.
Another trick? I make chaste brides turn from church;
let stretched shadows hound me from my form.
For thirst I’ll suck your cattle, bone and dry;
but to sup my flesh may snare both sorrow
and despair. Life furrows the old straight track
as I shift, from buck to doe, buck and back.
Page(s) 43
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