Old witch desires her youth.
|Her mirrored face, reflected
Eyes, with brightness fading.
Wrinkled skin, crow’s feet detected.
Enchantress gone, her youth abating.
In her book of spells she sought
For words, an incantation
To restore lost youth. She thought
To halt age’s fast progression.
The elements required, she assembled
For when the time was right.
Although the spell, experimental,
She chose All Hallows’ night.
The pumpkin chose, was round and solid,
Perfect for her deed.
The forest trees stood thick and stolid.
The crone was sure she would succeed.
The words she spoke around the fire,
Were ancient tried and true.
The witch expressed her wants, desires,
Her body to renew.
“What's theirs is yours,
what's yours is theirs.
I offer up this gift to share,
switch the bodies through the air.”
A beauty, lithe, desirable,
An image grew from out the fire.
The crone’s past body recognisable
One that all who saw, desired.
Her words, the spell, the vision,
Around the flames they danced.
Their bodies melded, came as one,
And each became entranced.
The fire died down, the witch arose,
Her body, face and health restored.
Young, old, now transposed.
The crone, she was no more.
Written for Dark Dreamscapes. Week three