Craft

For audio please visit HERE on Soundcloud.

We learnt the art of potions,

from the great schoolmistresses of the South,

their hair like thistledown,

a tongue like a bullwhip in an open mouth.

They taught anyone their craft,

free of charge,

if you had a talent for magic,

and a will to learn.

They taught us the right way:

to stir a pot,

to wipe a child’s snot,

to make a man leave or stay,

to cut a foetus away.

Of course the men came to burn us,

but they didn’t recognise us,

being so suspicious of their own daughters,

that many a child was murdered.

Unmarked graves,

that bore the sins of the fathers,

instead of names and dates.

Eventually we became the new teachers,

and under our tutelage,

the young ones learnt to fight back,

against the stupidity of the old men,

who held laws like babies,

and propped up their houses with the corpses of children.

We taught the young ones the right way:

to stir a pot,

to wipe a child’s snot,

to make a man leave or stay,

to cut a foetus away.

Soon our books filled every shelf,

our songs every heart.

So much so that even the old man in the pub,

hums our tunes over his beer,

while his children practice their queer,

and hone their craft,

and brew wild ideas into living potions,

that teach minds to fly,

with the queerest of notions.

-o0o-