In the middle of the greenwood,
In the centre of what is,
The wise women gather,
They’re lifting the lid
On the meagre remnants
Of the magik that once was:

Wicca, witch and wizard
In the whispering wood.
Found in times of turbulence,
Of movements in the blood.

The devotees of the vacuous,
The frightened and appalled,
Consumers, losers-all
Watch silently as children’s blood
Seeps slowly down city walls.

In the lore of the wise,
There is no disguise
We see into the empty
Heart of modern man.
Our defences are few
But we work to renew

Clairvoyant, Midwife, Spirit Guide,
Such fragments as remain,
Reborn as the shaman,
Who makes prescience an art,
By seeing into
Our defenceless human heart.

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