Under a witching tree in a witching wood I met a wooded witch who whispered to me tales of the divine

Of wood nymphs wearing spectacles and frogs who once kissed turned into princes and of forests that gleamed with silver and blood in the light of a full moon

And she told me too of holy men wearing orange who sang strange sounds into cities made of glass and sand and of the seven wonders of the Ancient world that never existed truly under the same blue sky

I listened for a time until her tales got too strange she started babbling, and cursing, she was frightening me and she said Trump’s name in vain so I left the witching tree in the witching wood and hoped that the wooded witch wouldn’t follow me home but everywhere I went it was as though I heard a voice crying in the wilderness