Molten Vole


Paddock Calls

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Withered hags
Have filled the cauldron with ice
In place of sacrificed eyes
It's really dampened the ceremony
Like last week's asbestos effigy

Flames flicker no more
The snack choices are poor
Hardly rivals
Tales of folklore

From the forest's verges
An ill-tempered toad emerges
Though it's accidental:
A toad ritual

Bog witches
Nude on a blanket of moss
Suffer acute hearing loss
Lucifer imparts sordid ideas
That fall upon deaf ears

Storms thump and bluster
The chanting's lacklustre
Slightest effort
Just scarcely mustered

From the mucky river
One more livid toad comes hither
Nothing remarkable:
A toad ritual