Midnight wind rushes through the trees
and sings in mournful tones,
rising just above the fog
that covers granite stones.

The cast iron gates blow just enough
to help me on my way,
across the grass before me
to where ancestors lay.

Her marker isn't common
a cross of equal arms,
bouquets of fragrant flowers
tied with silver charms.

I hear her words of wisdom
but she hasn't made a sound,
I feel her here beside me
as I kneel on sacred ground.

I've come to tell you something
I know you'd want to hear,
your crafts come full circle
we still hold tradition near.

No longer are the shadows
a place where witches hide,
no longer are we tortured
because somebody lied.

I'll leave this candle burning
as a tribute in the night,
to your life and death of honor
and your ways of love and light.

Willow Dancer
09 - 04 - 03


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