Witch

No man can hold me.
See –
I blur the line between days,
inhabit that space between sleep
and wakefulness.

The blue hour’s lung swells –

Exhales – past fresh-laid hedges
with their dark-ditched waters
stirred by breath

I seek out the roots of sleeping trees –
strange comforts hold tight –
tell knotted secrets that cannot be found.

Dark ground watches.  Paths become streets
where numberless doors hide the silence of children.

Here, I make no sound.

Windows wait.  Each sill with glass-held skin,
waiting for the blood-beam.

The light is beneath my tongue.

 

 

Jenny Hope is a writer, poet, presenter and workshop facilitator.  She lives on a hill in wildish-West Worcestershire.