In the Wold of Cots

In the Wold of Cots

where forget me knots

and Belles of  blistering blue

hang fire alone

where they were grown

in the root stocks

there  is glue

those cups of course are toxic

but  with spital they  become

the Dandelions Roar

the Plantains score

though too much

can make one numb

in the Wold of Cots

pagan bots

Now  be

the new age old age

staff carrying portals

behoven to

those who see

and know what to do

And do what they know

the ritualists robed and calm

the man in red

whose badges yield

a certain magical  sphere

with his suckle of honey

Set firm never runny

its the honey bee

To revere

the sweetness throws

the syrupy nose

nectar rich and sweet

pollen gatherer

in the dry

with soft socks on your feet.

A stinging glimpse of freedom

the Wold to truly see

all sorts of  wonderful witches

Out there in front of me

but only one is cherished

a lady  wrapped in gold

a goddess from the golden hearth

Who liveth in our Wold.