Witch Poem by Clive Culverhouse

iron pits your couldron's stare
down ages, hags, before you
sought, with snake,
in dusty room,
no see-through corners
candlelit, those candle teeth,
a shack, a mouth
with rotting feather,
tooth and hair
on beam of dead ‘ns hanging
droop, scythed blood
in drops and gushes
fruit a mixture that you stir

who said that you were old
and frayed,
with jagged stark
and crookedness
you cried, had thighs
and smiles that lit,
those witches, dead,
became you