the dour witches douse their hair
in burgund’ wine of vine so sweet
in oaken casks of forest fair
feet brushed in earthen moss of peat
–
bewitching verse beyond the light
a fiendish curse upon their heads
sharp cackles rise and bring with fright
such horrid fancies rife with dread
–
in dead of night they come in force
to claim the blood of those who sought
to savage them and change the course
of damned men and women distraught
–
alas they tried but were dismayed
by the stalwart Witcher Galdric
by whose own hand that theirs was stayed
with strength of a raging auroch