A Crag a name that’s often given,
To some may know as witchcraft women,
Who live amount the Cheviot hills,
Brewing teas and making spells,
The oldest crag of ninety nine,
With scratty hair and eyes blue blind,
She has for ailments a drinking potion,
For fertile wombs and bones t’ broken,
For seeing things she has a gift,
As the future she can oft predict,
In times of trouble and times of plight,
And when the moon is mostly bright,
They take their baskets and walk the wood,
Whispering chants and casting good.
This is my C poem for the A to Z challenge.
My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within.
The Crags of Northumberland are sort of cliffs, up near Alnwick. But I thought they sound more like witches of the woods.
My poems kind of lead onto one another so I do suggest you read the poem before it to get the gist.