A Land Where Beauty Sleeps

by Caroline Davies

A sword is not
the right tool for this task,
surrounded by brambles
that whip back and lash me.
I can see turrets.
By the time I break through
I’m trembling with exhaustion
and some kind of fear.

I leave thick footprints
in the dust where not even
the wind breathes.
In the grand hall
I find the object of my desires
a glass coffin containing...

Except she is old and greyed,
a crone, not a beautiful maiden
Something has gone wrong with this tale
But I know my duty,
bend to press my lips,
to flesh that is still warm.