An owl hoot
Disturbed in her night-vigil
Three voices raised in chant
One young an soft
One the strong candor of a woman grown
One the soft rasp of a voice fully used
As the chanting crescendos
The big beacon fire flares
Into 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 so
The maiden adds teardrops from an orphan
The mother adds teardrops from a bereaved parent
The crone adds teardrops from those that wish to die
The ladle stirs widdershins
Magic witches brew
Spits and bubbles
Foams and vapours
Welcome 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 cackles
A fireworks of sparks© REDCAT
As the ghosts assemble
Posted to dVerse ~ OLN: Casting a Spell
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!