That mother, benign and casual soul, sates her maw with green ideas, Solicits The Green Man and bestows her blessings with scant discernment or selection. She is fond of Magick, and dedicated her with rites, but cannot commit to her for long.
So Magick sits, an ancient child, at odds with the steel-glass jungle, Where suited ants work work work, mingle mate, but touch nothing real, She sits and roots herself with unsurprising ease In the vacuum of the unreal.
She is adopted by the disillusioned and taken home in pills Fostered by the godless and dressed in spiritual thrills When all else fails, as it mostly does, who but Magick will prevail?
For this ancient child is unreliable and fey Yet she contains our spirit grown through the world's long day. We seek her in the buried horn, the amulet and charm, we give her many names and expect delivery from harm.
I do not wonder, not at all, that Magick sits on the steps of the third millenium I kiss her wise -ened insightful face, and she winks with glee. She knows a cosmic joke, or two or three Or that is what she tells me.