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.

Now, in times of turbulence,

Of movements in the blood,

The devotees of the vacuous,

The frightened and appalled,

Watch silently as their children’s blood

Seeps slowly through the empty

Palace walls.

In the lore of the wise,

There is no disguise

We see to the rotten heart of man.

Our defences are few

But we work to renew:

Clairvoyant, midwife, spirit guide,

Such fragments that remain

Are reborn as the shaman,

Who make prescience an art,

By seeing through

This defenceless human heart.