In the middle of the greenwood,

In the centre of what is,

The wise women gather

They're lifting the lid.

 

On a meagre remnant of what was:

Wicca, witch, in whispering wood.

 

 Now, in times of turbulence

The devotees of the vacuous

Will turn and burn the witch.

 

For, in the lore of the wise,

There is no disguise

We see to the rotten heart of man.

Our defences are few but we are strong:

Clairvoyant, midwife, spirit guide

Such fragments that remain

Coalesce and are reborn as the shaman

Who makes presience an art

Here, where the mushroom grow,

In the very heart of the wild wood.