The season of the witch

In the middle of the greenwood,
In the centre of what is,
The wise women gather,
They’re lifting the lid
On the meagre remnants
Of the magic that once was:

Wicca, witch and wizard
In the whispering wood.
Found in times of turbulence,
Of movements in the blood,

The devotees of the vacuous,
The frightened and appalled,
Consumers, losers,  all
Watch silently as their children’s blood
Seeps slowly down palace walls.

In the lore of the wise,
There is no possible disguise
We see to the empty
Heart of modern man.
Our defences are few
But we work to renew:
Clairvoyant, midwife, spirit guide,

Such fragments that remain,
Reborn as the shaman,
Who makes prescience an art,
By seeing through
The defenceless human heart.