Hare

Hare leaping

startled, stuck

staring in a tree.

Witch woman telling me

I am witch now

I always was.

It took me this song

to leap and listen,

my leather ears pinned back

for too long,

now alert,

straight, strong.

Eye socket hollowed,

harrowed and hallowed

witch leapt away from the hunter.

He caught her before

she could change

back and left her dangling

hanging skin shredding

taught across her spine,

gold flecked

fur coat falling to the floor

shedding, slipping off the shoulder.

She shows her half naked self

laughing,

big toothed grin.

Hare you are leaping

to the moon

from the golden underground gate,

mummiform woman, Wenut,

tired for a moment of guarding,

watching for the dead to enter here.

Hare mooned mother

with your forelegs limping

backwards

pointing to where old

Sheela Na Gig

proudly showed her entrance

to the gate that births all things,

pulled apart

in sight of the old holy temple

high up on the hill,

the ring

where the goddess danced

under that same moon

two thousand years before.

Old Sheela was brutally

hacked off

not so long ago

by someone affronted

by her full frontal audacity.

One thousand years of displaying

her wares to the godly

crumbled into dust.

Sometimes I feel

like exposing myself

to the group of men

who are hacking against

the witch woman,

so that they too

might crumble into dust.

Here you hang

hare woman

hare witch

hare mother

hare sister

telling me I have to pay attention

to the gift you have given.

Brangwen of the Fleet Foot

take your sliver tinned shield

with the three hares chasing circles

around the moon.

I give you this,

witch.

It is yours.

You have earned her

alongside all that the

gods have bestowed upon you:

Your cloak, your crown, your sword,

your spear, your staff

your silver chain mail

your golden bow and arrow

your drum

your horse

your sight

clear as the chalk stream

running at my feet.

Climb my giantess naked body

hold my soft hare

headed lobes

grab my whiskers

for they are strong

as the spider silk

spun across my skull.

My hare head sees all,

this empty socket

notices the detail.

You who sees the bone dust

scattered beneath the yew tree

where others walk by oblivious,

hounds snapping at their heel.

You who notice

the songs of the dead

and sing for them

inside the green stone walls

where monks

once held vespers

in the shadow of the

first witch mother.

Take the moon

and turn hacking men

into crumbling dust.

copyright RunesnRoses 2021.

Listen to the poem below and watch the short poetic film below that.