Walking Past Christchurch
by Lycia

Rock
winding
with air toward
transfiguration

and I think of building
this creature, sanding shaping
this granite lace trying to dissolve
into less substantial space
reaching with woven spires
to that vanishing point

I feel the sun from here
And I don't want to reach,
to separate
from this warm ground
that resonates and catapults
spinning solid
in nothing

Earth beats warm against my soles

Crossroads
by Spirithawk

Place upon my brow
my staghorn circlet,
a gift more prized than any golden crown.
In these hands place my bottle, a fitting gift,
for the horned father, next morn.
Blow the pipes loudly
and play us a marching song.
At this crossroad, I shed this mortal load
and begin the march back home.
Have a laugh and a drink to my memory
and tear not the passing of my name.
Remember my friends, will sing again
in a shaded glade in the summerlands.

Victim In The Mirror
by Spirithawk

Lurker of the Leaves
horned one
greenman of the forest
author of the rising sun
dually bound, hunter and hunted
that which springs forth
destined to go to ground
what do these invisible eyes trace?
A victim in the mirror,
separate but a united whole
bloodshed and consumption
necessary sacrifice fulfills
destined role.

The cauldron is a cooking pot

by Lycia

The cauldron is a cooking pot.
This we know
As our mothers have known.

And we, like all women,
hold the mysteries of the ordinary
In the well of our hearts.

We can heal with a kiss,
Touch with a glance;
We decorate the night with our songs
And make the darkness safe.

We alchemize love into strength
And pour it into others,
like soup from the cooking pot.

And, like our mothers,
We know the sacred rhythms of Life
Resonating inside of us,
Resonating in all of us

We are witches,
All of us,
This we know.