Friday, 10 April 2015


Deep within Black Mountains, there is a sacred place,

Where waterfalls cascade, down ancient rocky face,

The place where creeping ivy & small lime trees grow,

A small little haven, to where witches teardrops flow.


Pwll-Y-Wrach, those pools, where sad old witches died,

Where those Holy men of God, all Crones, unfairly tried,

For simply deeds of magic & their healing with all herbs,

Drowned them for their sins; their souls turned into birds.


Waters flowing onto ancient stones, & silken silted mud,

Old ruby sandstone, the red, of murdered witches’ blood,

That place of butterfly orchids & harridan´s pleading wails,

The pools of men´s shame, lost beneath cold & stony shales.

No comments:

Post a Comment