She ran, hair coursing, wind-borne, wild-eyed, wicker wielding,
Through the bough broken, twig torn, leaf wrenched,
Storm struck, Forests core.
In the roiling cauldron of her heart,
A thunderous vortex brewed,
Magic mimed the spell the words would not weave,
A chant to free her heart.
This knight in shining armour held it tight,
Faerie bane, in painful grip of Iron.
© Greg Richards