I Write Poetry

The Crone.
The clouded moon casts secret shadows,
the lonely crone walks round and round.
The daisies furled against the darkness,
her silent tread will make no sound.

Fungi rings hold dancing faries,
twisting turning to the beat.
Slow drawn mead will make them heady
clapping hands and stamping feet.

Babies wrapped in cobweb snuggles,
suckle on soft ample breasts.
Laughing couples slap and tickle,
The band slows down to take a rest.

The crone sits down beside her familiar,
a cat of black with amber eyes.
And as they sit in silent sadness,
the lonely crone begins to cry.

The dancing fairies pace now quickens,
twirling spinning light on feet.
They conjure up some evil magic,
Boiling pots placed over heat.

Her familiar once again her lover
touches soft her face so old,
he wraps an arm around her shoulders,
and keeps her warm as life goes cold.