Golden sickle

By guest poet Corselena Ryan¹

I need a gold sickle
to cut my mistletoe
with Druidic processes.

Watch my cauldron glow!
A simple dash of crowsbeak;
a powdered pufferfish…

What’s brewing in this vessel?

Salt, pepper, 
arabic gum;
the tail of a weasel;
newt and toad, finch and fern,
all bubbling together
within this urn.

Beneath the full moon,
near my dolmen—
my most permanent fixture.

The long white hairs
from a wizard’s beard;
strawberry guts; something fizzy and weird.

We druids had our potions;
concoction, tinctures.
Now we are torn—
rendered away—
the earliest doctors—
too much lost that way.

Today there’s just me, end of my line—
creating (yes!) this one last time—
as the hordes approach.

Outmanned, yes—
but not outclassed—
I add some saltpetre,
to give them a blast.

Live reading of this poem at Pride Poetry Woy Woy, April 2025:

1. Small edits by Catherin J Pascal Dunk. Photo from Pexels Free Photos. ↩︎