The gingerbread house lures us with walnuts, glace cherries, icing but it is thatched with innocents' hair.
There are dark pools, and bracken arching over lairs of trapdoor spiders.
The witch slips a finger bone into her apron pocket before polishing a red apple.
Children, a god is watching you from the saucer eyes of owls, and your small lives are nothing to him.
I've been searching for another poet to feature in Sunday poetry blogging, ever since I posted almost of Anna Akhmatova's translated poetry. Today, I'm introducing George Trakl. More about him in coming weeks. For now, lean back and enjoy the words.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."