Beechwood black as witches’ smock
the occult warlock flies about
The air is fresh with whispering
the living dead are listening
The moon is cloaked diaphanous grey
that singing blind man is the wind
The curious laughter of our kind
echoes in the circle round
Luminous in transparent form
the spirit of the night is born
The virgin huntress hides her head
while shrinking in our nothingness
the symbolic victim dressed in white is led
down paths too steep to stop
she sinks to earth from where she fights
Then still, lying motionless she screams she cries
and summer’s secret silence breaks
while hedonistic bodies astralised
the soon found spirit asphyxiates