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.