Around a steaming cauldron
On their haunches they perch
Cackling, wizened faces smothered with woad,
As into the bubbling mix they toss
Dismembered newts and slimy toads,
And with bony fingers they scratch and claw
At the still pulsing entrails of a young jackdaw,
Licking their lips, they chomp their chops
As each wriggling morsel into the pot they plop,
Then rub their bloodied hands in glee
While the noxious ingredients
Slowly braise and stew,
To concoct their grisly witches' brew.
Diane Scantlebury
