Through sleepy hollows, past the snowy henge &
over to yonder lilac hills,
The warlock wanders, searching & seeking nature´s
potions & forest´s pills,
Hyssop for purification & rosehips & sage to
chase away those winter blues,
Chestnuts, hazels, coriander & thyme, to brew
& concoct rich autumn stews.
To banish sad, grey impending gloom, hypericum in
glad, cheery, happy yellows,
Hollyhocks & lupines, a little red hatted holly,
all the woodland´s hoary fellows,
The old man prays for herbs, roots, berries & that
elusive & errant poetic helicon,
Mumbling his way, with crane-bag by his side,
collecting like an old wise pelican.
Chamomile to calm the soul, horehound for coughs &
colds in fluffy cotton white,
He harnesses hawthorn berries in pinks & reds,
icy, crisp, small & furled skin tight,
The bloodstone purple heliotrope leads the wandering
warlock toward the wary sun,
Helianthus in her golden glory flaunts & flirts,
lifting frilly skirts, always ready for fun.
Hunting hyacinths & honeycombs, nectar from homes
of the buzzing summer bees,
The warlock seeks & the warlock searches, under
every stone for every herb he sees,
Purslane for pretty ladies & hemlock for the witches’
brewing very sorry & evil deeds,
Antidotes needed & found in deep hooded roots, dark
bark & snuggly podded seeds.
The wandering warlock is known as the Hawthorn Hawker of
Herring-Bow Hollow,
The wandering warlock goes where no mortal being ever dares
to go, neither follow,
He hunts, he digs, he hews, he collects & he then hawks
to witches his herbal wares,
His chore done, the warlock disappears to a secret place
& nobody knows to where.
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