You call us witch and tell your own damning, make-believe stories

Tide upon tide of the wreckage of the histories of our peoples. Ships, famine, disease, slavery, dispossession, closing of the commons, rape, enforced conversion, cutting down of groves, smashing of shrines, stealing of wells (and their priests say we poison wells… projection much)…

In me flows the blood of the islands far into the West and the island far into the East… joined together and become something else.

My father flies with dragons and has children with mermaids. My mother cares for the sick, midwifes the dead, and carries that same fire-fallen-rose-line virtue that had her father make way for the Rom, dowse the Land, and speak against the Church on a chicken farm in Oakey… a pagan picking mushrooms in shit-filled fields.

You can not kill us.

We have not been burnt.
No stone has crushed the air from our lungs.
No noose has stolen air or life.
We have not been drowned.

We have hidden and served in plain sight.

We have been called white witch, cunning man, wise woman, balian, leyak, medium, tantrika, shaman, conjuror, diviner, pellar, charmer, horse whisperers (like my great great aunt charming the white horse called Satan that none other could)…

You call us Witch and tell your own damning, make-believe stories.

Okay – yes, we will be your Witches and beware then the face the Grandmother shows to you when you have abandoned your covenant with the Land, with Sovereignty… we will be the Hag, the Loathly Lady, we will turn keys with either hand and knot winds in cords and sell charms by the crossroads.

Our honey hearts can not be poisoned… our heads are full of fire. Stars sing the Nameless Name, and our craft Her conjure!

And we are here to remind you.

Power is about belonging… to the ground of your being. That our animal wisdom shows the way in kinship with the Plant People, River People, Mountain, Forest, Fungi, Sea, Cave, Desert, Valley… that gods are not worshipped, that we meet as peers and so you call them devils. Our secret Sabbath… Pleasure beyond Belief. Belief is a tattered garment in the mud as the storms drench Earth.

We are human animals because we are Artful. We are family with you. And we dance in the eternal dawn with the People of Peace as we stand at the Western Gates kissing each who steps onto the barge and goes out past the Ninth Wave.

Hate our kind and Beauty will disappear from the world. Love us and the Rose blossoms forever as we dance under Her, for our ways are Her Own.

Love is the Law.