Poetry By Willow Dancer

"What Witches Do"

My hearth is humble, clean and hot,
on the flame there sits a pot.
To boil a stew or brew a brew,
I do the things that Witches do.

A red hot glow beneath the log,
adders tongue, and hair of dog.
stir the ashes, burn a root,
toil and trouble, eye of newt.

In the corner stands a broom,
not for sweeping, ne're a room.
If you watch as night draws neigh,
shadows fly across the sky.

Young and old, most rare and queer,
the lure of magick draws you near.
Bats and blackbirds, ravens, crow,
call the spirits, high and low.

Candles flicker, haunting smells,
in the distance ringing bells.
Enchanted frogs, and pointed hats,
shiny charms, green eyed cats.

Ancients did this long ago
and passed it on for you to know.
From mouth to mouth and ear to ear,
much to learn, few to hear.

Sacred rites all hidden well,
softly conjure, cast the spell.
Lady Moon, Lord of the sun,
we're all quite different, we are as one.

Pay attention as you go,
looking at us you'd never know.
In our cottages, we're safe from view,
and doing the things that witches do!

Willow Dancer

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