As the cauldron bubbles its messy brew
the witches turn away: the recipe
is not their own. They recite hopeless spells
and take dayjobs cleaning offices.
The pouring: lick the mould first, the earth
fertile beneath the matted sward, tight knit,
leaves and stems, obsure fungi and mosses
in the half-light. The lowly crawling things.
Phoebus Apollo tries to hide the darkness,
the rising scream of midnight, whilst her
incantations from the shadows cry
against it all.
