An owl hoot
Disturbed in her night-vigil
Three voices raised in chantOne young an soft
One the strong candor of a woman grown
One the soft rasp of a voice fully usedAs the chanting crescendos
The big beacon fire flaresInto the witches cauldron an array of disquiet
Skeletal bones, frog-legs, spiderwebs
Dewdrops gathered under the full moon
Herbs and tubers dried and prepared just soThe maiden adds teardrops from an orphan
The mother adds teardrops from a bereaved parent
The crone adds teardrops from those that wish to dieThe ladle stirs widdershins
Magic witches brew
Spits and bubbles
Foams and vapoursWelcome shade of life not lived, the maiden whispers
Welcome phantom of love without an hearth, the mother intones
Welcome wraith of lonely solitude, the crone cacklesA fireworks of sparks
© REDCAT
As the ghosts assemble
Posted to dVerse ~ OLN: Casting a Spell
The world according to RedCat 
Mother, Maiden, and Crone. 😈💘
But of course! 😉
I like the many “ghosts” in the poem and the picture you used to illustrate this post.
Oh this was a wonderful brew… love the different generation of witches here… not just the old crones of Shakespeare.
I like that stanza with all those teardrops.
What a wicked and wonderful scene you paint here of witches, spirits, and potions — dug it Red!