Buried her slash-tasselled coat like old Saxon groats
When an owner of oxgangs hears of Vikings along his coast.
The stoven ground yawning like their opened, bloodied throats;
The cold ground the only awning for the slaughtered pigs.
Mere mouse a tawny sought. Whole litter and it’s my pick.
For her lily-pallored ghost
A plot, mostly holes, one malnourished horse’s width.
Alchemisland 
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