Member Poem

Languid smells from bronzen pots
were dun and thicked the air.
She stirred them in those tumid lots;
rags or leaves or flowers fair.

Her pungent potions wracked the panes
of pear shaped glass that barred the rains.
Quietly she stirred her tunes,
around and round those oozing fumes.

They thought she was afraid of death,
yet not afraid of dying.
In her humid hut and bubbling urns
was revealed her dreadful pining.