“Enough!” she cried out loud, “I’ve had enough
of treading clods, breaking ploughs on flint
and chalk. And growing nothing more than docks
or charlock. Look at my fingers, knuckle and bone,
frayed by frost and wind. And I’ve done with fishing!
Arms scabbed by salt, worn thin from battling tides;
my back bent by the rain’s constant hammer,
casting nets for fish who slip away!
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- Three Drops from a Cauldron welcomes submissions of poetry and flash fiction involving myth, legend, folklaw, fable and fairytale. More details can be found on the submissions section of their website.