The Songstone

But Kora sat unmoving, in great magic.
The walls, her home, faded about her. Warmth
went; all alone and on a freezing plain,
dressed in a tunic, sharp knife in her belt,
bow on her shoulder, arrows in a quiver
behind. Her eyes gleamed; a pale cold light,
ˈlɪmpɪd ɪn ˈdʌlnəs

She looked around. Away, at vision’s limit,
a dark shape rose above the plain: a Tower,
the only thing in all this barren place:
no bird flew, no grass grew. Despite the wool
she shivered. Breath-clouds hung in the raw air,
ˈsləʊli dɪˈzɒlvɪŋ

Then in eye’s corner something moved. She turned
to gaze across the Waste and saw a Cloud.
Far, almost straight behind her as she faced
the Tower, it too reared up black and sheer.
Unlike the Tower, moving, whirling, wisps
trailing their tentacles around a core,
ˈtwɪstɪŋ ɪnˈseɪnli