Densely wooded is the isle of the witch,
deep-planted her pride- and pack-prowled palace.
Transformed carnivores and boars not yet flitched,*
now fawn having forfeited their malice.
Menagerie knows they have come ashore,
so too, insatiable sorceress, Circe.
magical potion waits, already poured,
so well-informed by enchantments is she.
What can she be thinking, Penelope,
that witch will offer hospitality,
that herbs will be found to cure injury?
More likely to end in captivity.
When one's fate depends on divinity,
it is best to prepare for calamity.
*flitch - cured side of pork.
http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2010/089/e/1/Circe_by_cemac.jpg