The Crone
noun: an old woman; witch.

She stands hunched over her work, long bony
finger pushing through rounded stones.
Quiet mumbles and mutterings;
nodding to herself.

Hair greyed with age, and skin
crinkled like screwed up tissue paper. Eyes
still sharp, icy, blue chips. A long
hooded gown enclosing her form,

she turns to stir her cauldron;
the clear depths rippling, her head
shaking at the signs, whist twisting
to pull herbs from shelves.

Throwing oils and stones
into the water; ripping
rosemary and sage. Watching
it dust the surface before bubbling

and swirling. Pouring the purpled liquid into a vial,
and spinning to press it into a young page’s hand.
Pushing him away, out of the home,
spent from her efforts she now stands weary.

She looks upon the moon searching for answers,
before turning away with more questions than before.