The Crone’s Whip

On the longest night
the Crone arrives with her whip,
and splits my lip,
but the air is too frozen to let it bleed.

The Crone takes my cheeks
between her wiry palms and,
chaps them ‘till I cannot feel the ravage of winter.

She lashes at the clouds
to break free the storm she has been brewing,
in he cauldron so black.

These hardships will not be fleeting,
we mortals will struggle to survive.
Is this a punishment for not keeping
the Crone’s memory alive?
Most celebrate a younger god,
and have turned away from the eons old
Grandmother.

Perhaps an offering or tithe is in order.
For I swear,
when I left out a plate of black pudding
at the base of the neighbourhood’s
eldest tree,
the sun peeked out and whispered,
“Wait! I am coming for thee!”