HECATE

—ADAM LOWE—

At the gates she lingers, bearing

a torch in the dark. She sings in infant’s

voice, with the rush of breaking waters;

she sings of your return and

your departure.

All crossroads are hers;

she feels the wander of your troubadour

feet, tracing the routes of her veins;

she guides you across the chasm

back to the hearth.

Her arms bristle with burning dawn candles

spelling out your name; her eyes are coals

to warm you in the dark between worlds.

Come back, she whispers, as she mantles

over soil, a secret, amniotic wench.

She rides black stallions, flows along

the coils of jewelled snakes,

and wears cow’s horns and boar’s tusks.

Mistress of thorns, she tangles you,

cuts deep with loving lips: her love is fierce.

In the darkness she waits.