Poetry By Willow Dancer





"Dark Moon"


Embers pop and ashes glow
smoke rises on the breeze,
the summer winds comes gusting
and whistle through the trees.

Dressed in black from head to toe
the ladies soon advance,
emerging from the shadows
they begin their sacred dance.

Moving 'round the campfire
chanting low in a fevered tone,
thirteen witches in a circle
bidding forth the blessed crone.

Howling hounds, a single torch
her spirit soon takes form,
she's welcomed by her faithful
like the calm before the storm.

They call her for her wisdom
and guidance in their rite,
protected by her presence
on a dark moon magick night.

Willow Dancer
08 - 23 - 03


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