Slow like the blackthorn, better after frost
Split skins, insides out, not a care for what is lost
Winding, gnarly branches in the moonlight glossed
A fine shine on a Shillelagh stick for when the drunks get tossed
Tempting first flowers, do not bring them in the croft
Cross the thorns and fae folk and your life will be the cost
The dark place in the hedgerow that the devil visits oft’
A charm to cast protection, that all witches hold aloft
wandering through the dampened moss?
Not Like, Love!!