The Moon and the Yew

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Trees of the forest know my dear beloved Witch,
A knowing from times long past.
They made the beams that spanned her hovel,
Their besom growths did thatch it from the rain.
The straight ash made her spell bound staff,
The yew her hunting bow.
The hazel, arrows flying true that fed her steaming black iron pot,
Just as at her side the silent, wolf-dog moved,
Upon command it thrust from forest’s thickets all her food.
Across the light of monthly moon,
She flew upon her birch broom stead,
Its rubbing shaft her dripping cunt to feed.
The cat familiar clasped upon her firm young breast,
All its magic secrets close within her chest.
The same birch twigs in childhood’s time,
Corrected every little crime.
Twig and sweet round buttocks blood,
Forging such a blood pact tryst,
That later spurred the coppice’s winter mist.
In darkest times of hunted persecution
Dried forest kindling crackled neath her twisting feet,
Flames of cruel perdition, licking like a lover’s tongue
Bared thigh and mound, the vulva slit,
Upward to caress the rampant, screaming Witch’s tit.
So the woodland trees have shaped her countless journeys,
Birth, life, death and repeated resurrection.
Through a thousand years of tears and meditation,
The great Yew travels with the Witch,
Its ancient druid powers to teach and all bewitch.
Deep carved by her razor knife’s true blade,
Her thirteen Witch’s names invade,
The crusty bark the living record of it all,
It’s timeless strength, shared union of its circling roots,
That with each fullness of the moon,
My wondrous Witch grows so upon the potent force,
Its succour sap within her blood to course,
A menstrual birth this Woman’s well-spring, penetrating force.
And of the forest’s Magus magic wood,
The Yew is wrot into a devil’s phallus by this hand,
At times of energy so essentially required,
Her Witch’s greedy cunt and anus so inspired.
As through the hour-glass dribbles eternities white sand.