Alone in her saffron coloured kitchen
she mixes up sugary dreams for us all:
ginger-bread horses with lemony manes,
cinnamon soldiers with peppermint canes.
and the sweet sticky scents roll out, down the hall,
and we smile at the smell of her witching.
A spicy poem for dVerse tonight, where Merril is hosting. I’m having fun with this sestain form at the moment.
The wild hare
“Show me your magic” said I to the hare
Crouching before me, wild and strong and free –
She turned and was away before I reached her –
Why should she stay and show herself to me?
The rabbit is a soft, domestic thing,
The crow brings death, the fox, they say’s a liar,
The lark calls up the summer and the spring
But the wild hare runs towards the fire.
We make a story up for every creature
We give them tales we’re not prepared to own.
We turn a moral out of every feature,
Forget that we, and they, are flesh and bone.
They say the hare’s a witch. I think it’s true:
I’ve seen the grey hare leaping to the moon.