The making of a witch

Summon the queen of death.

Split open the sky.

Scratch at constellations

‘til stars fall

to sand; petrified

lightning – her wrath.

 

There was a storm once

– long forgotten –

the night threw flames

and set the galaxy alight.

Here lie her eyes;

Deep, mysterious, dancing.

 

Look for old stone stacks,

Moss covered, lined up on paths that are not passed

– her unmoveable will.

An ancient mountain.

 

Find the place where the tide

rips over scorched limestone

and quartz.

Buried below is her heart.

 

Listen to the trees,

the whistle of the leaves.

Hear her.

 

In fog, shapes slowly transform.

In the making of witches,

earth turns to flesh,

stones turn to bones,

and fossils to blood,

under the pressure

of oppression.

 

To know her is to hold a storm

in the cup of your hands.

 

To love her is to offer your heart

to smouldering ashes,

knowingly.

 

Do you give it?

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