Frieda Hughes - 1960-
She is the gypsy Whose young have rooted In the very flesh of her scalp. Her eyes are drill-holes where Your senses spin, and you are stone Even as you stand before her. She opens her lips to speak, And have you believe. She has more tongues to deceive Than you can deafen your ears to. If you could look away, the voices From the heads of her vipers Would be hard to argue. If you could look away, The pedestals of your feet might move. If you could look away, The song from the cathedral of her mouth Would fall to the floor like a lie.