by brian francis
Runes and rhymes and fire’s smoke
sands drawn out, a careful rite
enticing ancient powers to come
Magic cast on the darkest night
circles chant and wander around
words as old as the sound of birds
they cast almost a warbling sound
round upon round of ancient words
Flames of blue and red and white
dance in the eyes a billowing flash
An energy builds with the final rite
Falling silent prostrate on the ground
Copyright © 2020 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 