Some call her a wise woman, some a white witch,
child of a milked moon, her pallor translucent,
bright sapphire eyes, just a soupçon of arrogance…
Her mission to counter the clutter and debris of
sprawling wastelands and cityscape grime..
She tiptoes through meadows mulched in deep grief
and cobbled lanes echoing thud of nailed boots
from war-weary soldiers exhaling dense breath.
Her hands ease the laboured birth of breeched calves
and mothers watch dying babes wake to new life…..
Smudged by her cauldron’s honeydew vapours,
kundalini courses through tree bark and plant sap.
Absorbed in their trivia most humans don’t see her,
yet indigo children may hear her sweet singing …
On wolf moon nights through the thin layers of cloud
they catch her winged flight across planets and galaxies….
Some say she’s a goddess and some bride of Satan
this woman of mystery, her name still unknown…
Margaret Royall 