The world turns.

The clouded moon casts secret shadows,
the lonely crone walks round and round.
The daisies furled against the darkness,
her silent tread will make no sound.

Fungi rings hold dancing faeries,
Twisting, turning to the beat.
Slow drawn mead will make them heady,
clapping hands and stamping feet.

Babies wrapped in cobweb snuggles,
suckle on soft ample breasts.
Laughing couples slap and tickle,
The band slows down to take a rest.

The crone sits down beside her familiar,
a cat of black with amber eyes.
And as they sit in silent sadness,
the lonely crone begins to cry.

The dancing faeries pace now quickens,
Twirling, spinning light on feet.
They conjure up some evil magic,
Boiling pots placed over heat.

Her familiar once again her lover
touches soft her face so old,
he wraps an arm around her shoulders,
and keeps her warm as life goes cold.


The dancing faeries cast their magic,
 sun now rises bright and clear.
The crone has gone her life departed,
I wonder was she ever here?

The morning sun warms up the meadow,
and amongst the daisies lies a cat.
With treacle coat and eyes of amber,
sun warmed fur he takes a nap