In the corner of the market
Duck beneath the ivy arch
Into dusty verdant perfume,
There you’ll find a witches’ storeroom.
Endless bright and pungent spices,
What they cure they will not tell.
Winding words and bargain vices
And they too eager for the sell.
If you can, ignore those pages,
Find instead the leaf-vein cages,
Delicate and doorless they
Each hold a hapless, formless fae.
Bring me one such silken lantern
Take it to the river clear
And if its spirit you return, in turn
I’ll make the price less dear.