The wytches’ child possesses a silver pentagram,
it hangs amidst the green-white phosphorous
lights where somnambulists channel souls from
the oasis of stellar-electric blasts that carousel
the brown chestnuts of old oak trees.
Here, she dances sky clad among the white-silken
mists and apple blossoms that nearly caress the
night sky. Always indiscriminately, she pours her
heart out to shadowy figures most would find
grotesque, if not for the fragility of a flower, bruised,
with strewn petals.
Small animals, wild for carrot taking, stop to stare
at a cricket waving his antennae in a field of grassy
knoll opposite the wytches’ cottage, where Spirit
begins to scatter droplets of rainwater from the twigs
of bushes, darkened by a Midsummer’s wind.
Often, beneath the waves of a sparrow’s wing,
under towed sunlight gathers with mustard glow over
the rattling of tarantulas’ feet. The wytches’ child,
smells of eucalyptus and burnt necklaces made of shell,
made of bone. Every foe is her friend, and she laughs
as she builds a world of snow.
Silvery tinges of sparkles remain collected, protected, in
the magick of her moment. Violet hues radiate through
clear glass swellings. Between the idea, between the
reality of conception and creation, there is motion. The
casual are less aware, but every now and then I remember
to shake the bubble and dream!