…the harbinger of death
My name is Rosaceae
the incarnation of the goddess
I am maiden, mother and crone
my colours shift like the seasons
from white, to red, to black
I am birth, I am life, I am death
I flourish in the winter
for it is my season
as all around me withers and dies
I, the maiden begin to bloom
I, the mother sow seeds of promise
I, the crone sharpen my claws
I cling to trees, I put down roots
my twisted thorns
homage to the Devil’s horns
that day the Archangel cast him out
and he crushed me with his weight
and cursed me in his wrath
to henceforth bear only bitter fruit
they call me bramble
the harbinger of death
I hide in thickets
and live in a tangled mess
I am evergreen, or deciduous
I can flourish, or fall apart
ever the queen of my domain
I am a ghost, a vision from the past
my purple stems, heavily bloomed
white in winter, or pink should I choose
armed with sharp prickles
I am the hunter, the entangler
the reaper follows my darkest fruit
creeping over your graves
I shelter snakes within my skirts
another nod to Lucifer
but I am of the Faeries now
I belong to the Faerie folk
fear me not, for I am benign
not the fruit of a fallen line
if you pick my brambles
on the night of the full moon
weave me, with rowan and ivy
breathe deeply, of my floral notes
and if the moment moves me
I may deign, to protect you from evil
© Ann Bagnall
