It was the perfect moon at Beltane when covens rejoiced,
Where maidens danced in white as trouble toiled.
Crafts were perfect and spells were at its best,
Then there she brewed the thought of an intimate test.
Rose petals, deer's tongue, the clover and the lavender,
Concocted together to meet the soul of a woman and her traveler.
To bewitch the heart and eyes with the allure of her herbs,
A spell to chant with the scheme of nouns and verbs.
Words made from silver lining and low tunes,
As her feline's eyes and hers were completely attune.
Euphoric fays began to feed on her prayers,
as desire burned brighter than the cauldron's embers.
Crimson blood, give a drop,
Burn the red candlesticks in each and every top.
Maiden, Mother, Crone.
She called her three Goddesses with intentions as deep as nightfall.
Swore by the waxing and waning in each tone,
As the creature of the night within her began to call.
A procedure which she's never unsure of,
Of a certain love spell supposedly she's better without off.