In the darkness of the moon
the old woman stirs the cauldron,
muttering words and rhymes long forgotten.
The air within her tiny hovel thickens,
taking upon itself a deeper aspect of itself,
and the words, the words they fly.
Energy, long forgotten,
hinted at in dreams of young love long ago
it builds, mounting upon emotion and will.
Bones nye unto breaking sing once more
of flight before a silver orb
The weight of years is cast off, an unwanted garment.
Dance she does, before the fire
dance she does, feet now fleet with power
And the words, the words carry her to another place.
Rising, rising upon the horns which search the night
and brighten the fields in flower. Rising, rising it does.
Up and up and up again, the spiral.
Mind and heart cut adrift amidst the energy,
Body and soul now within magick's tender embrace
Focus comes clear once more and the spiral is released.
Out it goes, a dagger between the worlds
Bent upon its single purpose and sent
The bender bends the worlds the shaper carves intent
Now spent, the years return, but they are not alone
Joy comes in the doing, the heart fills with the knowing
And bones return with ache, but no longer quite so old.