Low

Adder coils up tight ~
in the morning thaw, ~
her spangled train helter skeltering down ~
and tangled in stories spun of age: ~

Is there anywhere safe for a snake, who’s ~
Scorned as Eden’s “honey-trap”? ~
Tossed like cauldron fodder in to a witches’ bake? ~
And chased off cliffs by a so called Saint?!!! ~

No wonder adder stays low when ~
slipping the bracken for a slither of light, ~
keeping the cloistered ruby of her eye ~
out of all shallow sight.