The witch’s pantry contains small bottles of every shape,
it’s a certain type of woman who bottles up her emotions and puts them on display.
Red and knobbly sits a bottle in the middle shelf.
actually it sings when you run a finger over it.
“You, you, you.” like words ripped from a lovers throat.
Another bottle is blue like harebells and twinkles like you thought they would,
actually it sobs when you knock it over to the floor.
“There are places we can’t go back to, we’ll board the ship and find no harbour.
We’ll walk the path and find no gate.
Oh, oh, the harebells bloom without you now.”
She leaves it on the floor,
nudges a toe at it so it rolls under the pantry.
She wakes in the middle of the night, coughing up a storm.
She brews thyme tea with honey,
At 4:29 she coughs up a small bottle, the shape of a frog and the colour of mud
that shines green when the light hits it.
And it reads,
no, it croaks when she lifts it up.
“Peace be with the girls who are forest wanderers,
do you remember the smell of pine needles? The feelings of sap on your hands?
A small frog in your pocket. Keep walking, keep walking.