Witch-bone broth.

Cursed black brittle bones, cast into a broth,
mandible for measure, scapula for stock,
moon-shine caught brook-water, a greying,
under elk-call, rainfall and prevailing weirdness,
hovering high within the heavy darkness;

six vole tongues and a mole liver,
crushed molars, bear bile, nullified cockerels,
christened, crucified, killed with a foul quickness;
sap, brine and bloodlettings, regurgitated,
with a staggered swirl—

magick, split willow, now useless, hollow
to stir, rising up apparitions, horned,
manifesting scorned hags unknown;
seared sallow flesh, scored like shark-gill,
dropped, strip-by-strip, trailing iron by the drip—

forbidden incantations, uttered and muttered,
amulet and sacrament, fire-cast with a spark,
and then, held, the vile red robe,
crawling with lice, slugs, snug toad eggs tucked,
torn with flint in twain,

winds dimming limber timber’s embers,
ghastly moans, shrieks soaring over moorland,
hellish minions, rise, gather, appear in moonlight,
futile sabotage, the entourage cast down:

a withered eye, rising, stirred by the bubble.