Winner in the "COLORING THE WORLD" contest, round 61. |
I call upon the ancient powers, Of lightning born at the witching hour; To bend and follow to my will, And carillon this night, so soft, so still; A bit of twine, a pinch of rust, A handful of this earthly dust; Stir once, stir twice, stir now thrice, Stir only clockwise, that I must; Pluck out a hair, one length will suffice, Hurry, the night moves, I must be precise; The spell combines, takes form in my hands, But I must pay coin to one final price; A prick of the thumb, with its whorls and its bands, I squeeze and draw out what the spell demands; A drop of crimson, so warm and so dark, Spills forth and spills out, and there it expands; Where it gathers the dust, the motes and the spark, Forming and shaping and making its mark; The spell is complete, the time’s almost past, The moon rises full, light knife-edged, stark; Spell in hand, it quickens, I must move fast, The witching hour ebbs, too fleeting to last; With a wing and a prayer and a shout to the sky, I open my hand and with force I let cast; A spell, catching wing, beginning to fly, Soaring and weaving, I hear its faint cry; On the winds of the night, the sigh of a dove, Sends out my true spell, my message of love. |