I.
I have to Faery gone—
With whiskers, fish and soul;
Up the stairs, across the lawn_
And through the hollowing hole
to olden doors
_there to be wytch-drawn!
II.
Path leads on to path;
From vale to heath to vale_
To the deep vale of being-in-Becoming
Where the Salmon speak!
III.
Raise the Circle
Cast a spell_
Heal the world
_make it well!
IV.
Wolcum wytch
Whoever you may be_
Come to our place of meeting,
earthy souls to be set free!
Come with Horn in Hand
To proffer troth with Three;
There my Horn I shall give to Thee
By the roots
Of the Old Elder Tree.
VI.
Out on the Witch
With Besom, Book and Bell,
Riding the Sapphire Waves of the Night_
We went a-flying to a Heath
Of Evermore.
VI.
The Ancient Circle rises
And it’s Dark, supervening Light
Surprises the Mundane Self
Out of its blithering slobber
Of wasted days!
So mote it be!
VII.
Moving silent, amongst the Trees
We see_
A form, indistinct in the Night
Yet given weird shape
By the Crescent Moon’s soul-sharp Light!
VIII.
Kneeling before the splendid spectre,
“It’s moving!” we muse,
In the thrall of silent dread_
As clouds shift the strange-ing shape
in its nexus!
Illuminating our mortals minds,
Bemusing our eyes—
The awe-full shape traverses a reality_
Leaving us swaying
like birch-boughs in the wind!
IX.
The Witch has come home
With compass, stylus and stone—
To scrape away the barnacles
Of sloth, fear and anxiety
From the hull and walls
of the Soul-House.
Nema!
