A Hedgehog Witch

Cauldron trembles,    
bare toes unabashed  
by the scent of pure danger,  
she coils about the contents  
enfolds it in her womb.  
Danger has been faced before,    
floored her, been stored  
as a bellied alarm  
deep inside a tomb,    
under ribs and matter,    
clothed and battered,  
covered in thorns.    
She is here  -  
a thing to dread,    
the outershell contracting,    
expanding and awake,    
a hive of needles  
all aimed outward,  
spinefully.    
It's the default,    
it is the factory reset,    
it is the essence of defence.    
Under it  
there's soft layer    
on soft layer  
on magick  
and eiderdown  
and the four beating chambers  
of insurmountable longing  
but without doubt,    
give her reason,  
any small flicker,  
to re-curl,    
to become hedge and scale and bristle,  
it is inevitable,  
and the only thing    
anyone will face  
will be a hide of her,
unfurling found
by certain moonlight.