rider, as she called out, “Your queen summons
you to war. Will you fly?”
Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open.
Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within.
Brooms left in closets, beside doorways,
tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in
gold or silver or twine.
And swords—ancient and beautiful—were
drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled
down from haylofts, their metal shining as
bright and fresh as the day they had been
forged in a city now lying in ruin.
Witches, the townsfolk whispered,
husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the
women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing.
Witches amongst us all this time.
Village to village, where hearths that had
never once gone fully dark blazed in answer.
Always one rider going out, to find the next
hearth, the next bastion of their people.
lily
(lily)
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