"The Witch"
The old witch's hut is hung with toadstools
And grey musk that sweeps its dusky forehead
Her cat is fat and happy with stories and fishbones
And the market boy brings her fish and root vegetables
Which she transforms into thick witch's broths and feeds them
They sit by the fire under the light of the unwary moon
Groups of visitors discussing invaders in low ominous voices
And goings on in the north lands where nothing conquers but cold
Where the ice and hardness of the landscape are dotted by trees
To that into which you must soon be going
The cat knows all the directions one can go in
Like a sphinx in a basket of eggs he waits for a visitor
He knows so much that he's pregnant with secrets
He watches while she weaves her soft yarns into stories
And now he wanders off for days to hunt
Without her cat the witch is lonely but busy
She is working on something she cannot deny
Time has rent or changed that which plaits her hair
And quite beautiful hangs her crooked nose in the light of the moon
When she bends crooked and humped under the urn that pours water
And hangs her stringy long hair to be rinsed underneath it
The rivers that flow nearby are of many names
She draws her water therefrom
Needing a new project to pour herself into
She makes of herself books of spells that make everyone dance
They come and take their books and go into the village
This is how she earns her keep
The old witch's hut
In Jesus' Name,
Amen