Evening dark has long since tumbled down.
Clouding skies lift wispy, star strewn
cups to catch the moonshine draughts.

The cunning woman stirs her cauldron, adding
foxglove and narcissus bulbs before she
tosses in a pinch of baby's skin for luck.

She glances skyward, hoping she won’t see
them, but packs of howling moon beams bleach
down through the tallest tips of shadowed trees.

A sprig of rue, now stirring faster, calling
to the storm clouds. "Oh Donar, oh my Master,
come to save me from the cold accusing moon."

That milky face, a sweetling child, once suckling
softly at her breast. If only he'd slept mute
while she'd thrown curses through the night.

Drowned in mounded flesh, her darkness fell
upon his morning bright. She'd pressed him
close until he'd lain like freshly fallen snow.

She chokes the memory back as nighttime sun hurls
guilt and sorrow beams. She pours the spell
and shrieks out, "Cover o'er my wailing moon!"