30.04.2020

Already we arrive by the sabbat, solitary witches turning things over in heavy heads and blessed empty rooms. Sifting and sorting and crafting fresh sense, as the wheel creaks and rolls over.

Everything in me is rearranging and I am loathe to anchor this queen tide. Hidden corners have rotated into the light and my eyes have taken on a different glaze. I take my place in the revolution, quietly on the fringe. I play with construction and conjure bridges in my mind, floating crossings to worlds I have not seen before. Lives I am still to live.

A flame haired hermit long before lockdown, preferring the outskirts of life for the freedom it affords. Safe from the madding crowd and its baying interference, the kind that only ever knocked me down or off my spot. The hunched hive mind still buzz and sting their own and their world collapses in on itself as it must. I stand untouched and grateful for the distance.

Witches have long lived on the edge of the dark forest, all the better to cultivate a view apart. Weighing senses against bias and scars and bones. Collecting experience like pages on the wind. Eyes narrowed, sharp like a bird or shrewd like a fox. Spirit sprinting ahead and fearless, the next adventure calling like an echo.

The blindfold this year has wrapped around my eyes plunges me below once more and I submit willingly without struggle or so much as a whisper. Samhain and the ancestors chatter the old tales to me. My body remembers the sequence and the salve. I reach in the darkness for my feathered pen. Not yet child, they stern. We stir until the form changes. We brew for the time it takes. We write the spell down later.

Art by Lucy Campbell

Words c. Kerrie Basha 2020

Sabbat rituals up in the coven now. All welcome to join us at www.patreon.com/bohomofo