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ArtistBlack Hole Sun, won’t you come—and wash away the rain: Bleeding sun, shimmering mirage, a woman waits for the heat of the day.About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. And some in dreams assurèd were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.
Prompt by Sioux and Sam Colleridge