Spit on the witch.
She rages and boils.
Bubbles broth from clear oils.
Cuts daisys for lotions, plants trees in dead soil.
She’s holier than though, with wisdom she bows.
Compassion unites the stars with their light. Fingerless puppets that dance through the night.
Grows old without aging, feels pain without complaining, holds baby’s whilst their mothers eyes are fading.
They spit on the witch, they curse and they hiss. Who is this miss to act out like this?
Show me the lights, gather the stones!
Bring out the door! We’ll send her straight home.
Make her bob, make her drown, cut her arms, tear her down.
Bring the general, light her up. Tie her down, string her up!
“I forgive you” said a man who turned water into wine. Who gave fishes to dine from immaculate birth to story of all time.
There’s a glitch in your history that glorifies mystery. Praises the gods whilst the witches lose victory.
Midwives and healers, spirit believers, lovers and growers, empaths and seers. Medics and chemists, farmers and alchemists.
Stick with your water to wine if you wish.
Mother earth and father air. Neither dies and neither cares.
© G.P Williamson 2018