Winged Power

I call upon the ancient powers,

Of lightning born at the witching hour;

To bend and follow to my will,

And carillon this night, so soft, so still;



A bit of twine, a pinch of rust,

A handful of this earthly dust;

Stir once, stir twice, stir now thrice,

Stir only clockwise, that I must;



Pluck out a hair, one length will suffice,

Hurry, the night moves, I must be precise;

The spell combines, takes form in my hands,

But I must pay coin to one final price;



A prick of the thumb, with its whorls and its bands,

I squeeze and draw out what the spell demands;

A drop of crimson, so warm and so dark,

Spills forth and spills out, and there it expands;



Where it gathers the dust, the motes and the spark,

Forming and shaping and making its mark;

The spell is complete, the time’s almost past,

The moon rises full, light knife-edged, stark;



Spell in hand, it quickens, I must move fast,

The witching hour ebbs, too fleeting to last;

With a wing and a prayer and a shout to the sky,

I open my hand and with force I let cast;



A spell, catching wing, beginning to fly,

Soaring and weaving, I hear its faint cry;

On the winds of the night, the sigh of a dove,

Sends out my true spell, my message of love.