Forest

Then she made little white silk shirts, and sewed a magic spell into them, for she had learned witchcraft from her mother… She threw a shirt over each of them, and the moment the shirts touched them they turned into swans and flew away over the trees.
In the forest with its starred twilight,
its mingling voices of earth and sky,
the king knows he has lost his way.
A witch appears who'll save him from
this particular darkness — if he
consents to marry her daughter…
Under a canopy of shadows,
the king spirits away his children
to a citadel so secret
only the magic clew can find it.
The new queen tracks the stolen thread
then swoops with her ghostly swan-shirts.
Quills sprout from silken skin,
form wings uncanny with power:
the princes vanish into the sun.
The forgotten daughter stays
untouched — at the centre of the forest,
of the story: in royal garments
she sits high in a tree, at work on
the counter-spell — six starflower shirts.
With his dogs and his courtiers,
another king rides through the forest.
Besieged, she throws pearled head-dress down,
her necklace of amber, silver gown,
but still is captured in her shift:
to be fallen in love with, become
a silent queen. At birth, each child
is stolen — locked away in the forest
of whose mind? The old queen smears her with blood,
wipes the blade of her envy.
The young queen stays mute, sews the starflowers…
Rumours must have their day —
and wordlessness be brought to book:
at last, the king decrees a bonfire.
Between castle and forest, its bones
are laid. In the earth beneath,
seed of a phoenix… A day brimming
with spring light. The crowd's throat tenses,
eager to slake an ancient thirst.
Mourners and kerchiefs to hand, the king
gives the signal. The great tree blossoms;
smoke spouts like cindery blood.
Her six-year hourglass is empty.
As soundless as its sands, she's led to
the pyre, steps into it freely.
The crowd is a sea of eyes cupped by
flames, a mask of flickering sweat.
The queen carries the starflower shirts,
now dry and eternal. Suddenly,
the blaze is fanned by wings — through forked tongues,
white shadows spiral: seeking
to be transformed, assume garments
of human flesh in time to save her…
Later, the scent of pine drifts over
the scene; only the remnant of a crowd
appeased by miracle, lingers.
Inside the castle, retribution;
rejoicings. For the first time the queen
sees her children, clasps them to her.
Each life moves into a new round.