The Petrifying Well

My name

is Mother Shipton's husband

and I have been

writing letter after letter

but 

no one ever seems to read them.

On a winter morning

she woke me

and kissed both

my cheeks

before melting into the wall

to listen to the moths.

We rarely spoke to each other.

Still I found myself

dreaming of

her

ivy

green

eyes

and eavesdropping on her prophecies

as if they were the holiest secret songs.

In my very last letter

I wrote of August

and how the boats sank to nothing and how

I heard she was a beast

so I kissed her on the mouth and

held her and held her and held her.