The kettle starts to whistle
so I'll brew a cup of tea
nine herbs to clear the senses
to let the thoughts run free.

The midnight oil is burning
sweet incense fills the air
a clear spot on the table
soft cushions on my chair.

My pen is poised at ready
to contrive as I recite
sonnets to my sisters
about the witch's plight.

Yes, we've heard it all before
and how the story goes
curses and black magick
and this I must oppose.

The lies are old and shabby
of dishonor and disgrace
The truth is out there waiting
waiting to take it's place.

I hear the new blood pulsing
standing ready in the night
bound to claim the mysteries
as a part of their birthright.

Sing praises to the Goddess
build an altar in her name
a priestess of the old ways
keep her everlasting flame.

Willow Dancer 03/13/05
Copyright © 2005


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