ear Winter, come you further in, fingering the wormholes of Hermione’s heart?
Sixteen times she and I have wintered in this hall, warmed each other’s beds.
She has risen over me, ridden high as a conqueror on the waves of my flesh
And I, divided, have fallen eagerly beneath each victory cry.

Autolycus, that finest of the mortal thieves, could not take her hand from mine.
But you, Death, (Shall I speak your True Name, now that you have come so near?)
Have sown hard seeds in her breast. She swells and hardens in my hand;
Shadows bloom on her skin and death’s cold snow rushes in at every breath.

Bulbs wintering in the soil do not dream of the garden’s destruction;
The seeds you planted in her breast will never bloom. Not on my watch.
She has given enough already. My love is sharp and narrow as a sword;
Hot as the bee’s barbed sting. I will cut your canker out.

Enter Autolycus [singing]:
When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! The doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.

[Extract, work in progress: Death, dildoes and daffodils: a queer Winter’s tale]