The making of a witch

The making of a witch

There was a storm once
– long forgotten –
when Night threw flames
and set the galaxy spinning.
Here you’ll find Her eyes.

Scratch at constellations
until stars fall
to sand; this petrified
lightning is Her wrath.

Look for old stone stacks,
moss covered, lining paths
that are not passed.
Fight the brackish tentacles and thorns.
Release her Scold’s Bridle
and unsilence Her tongue.

Find the place where the tide
rips over scorched limestone
and quartz.
Buried below is Her heart
pressed to coal
over lifetimes.

Listen for the
shrieks of foxes fighting
and the night splitting scream
as an owl releases its prophecy.
This is Her song.

Hold a hurricane
in the cup of your hands.
This is Her.

To love Her
is to offer your heart
to smouldering ashes,
knowingly.

To resurrect Her
is to summon
the souls of the women
who were wronged.

For witches cannot be made,
just reignited.

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