Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews


Witch of the Grove (excerpt) Moon of Rowan Wolfe


Supernatural Lust: MLM Prompt

In the midst of a ritual, performing the whirling steps of an intricate dance, Mei Yue wove a glimmering trail as she moved. Clothed in a sprinkling of sparkling powders, moon glow and starlight; with arms out-flung she spun her way through the grass of the glade. Halting to arch her back and draw her hands together, she would press them forcefully into the air as her body swayed to the secret beat of celestial music. Singing sweet notes to the night, in impassioned vibrato of sensual need, her voice wove enchantments engaging the sky.

Resuming her previous rhythmical prance, she would pause to perform anew at each of the four points of power. South to West to North and to East, she divided the world into quarters; each time interrupting her spinning progression to repeat her posture and song.

Onward she twirled, her image seeming briefly to blur. Thinking the vision imagined Rowan struggled to keep her in focus. Wiping vestiges of sleep from his eyes changed nothing, for the dizzying effects of her shape-shifting spell grew only more pronounced.

Windless since dusk, no breeze contested the stillness of the night, but her hair now unbound, floated freely in the air, surrounding her silhouette in a web of moonlit strands. No longer did she masquerade as a petulant girl or peasant witch, she was a goddess beguiling the moon. Utterly evocative in her evanescent display, she was a creature that had never known taming. Wilder than winds that blow cross the Steppes, she was the core of the regenerative cycle.

Primal of essence in her pagan invocation, she was a temptress of feverish dreams. Fluidly, her movements would mesmerize as her voice commanded the attention of Luna’s glaring eye. Then, with unexpected brusqueness, her outline would crystallize in clarity.

Overall, her dance conformed to circular dimensions and upon returning to a point on its southernmost arc, she cried out in an exhilarated crescendo. Bound by her glamour, Rowan could only watch in fascination as she rose bodily up from the ground. As if held aloft by a host of invisible hands, with arms outstretched she floated upright from across the field.

For a moment he thought she might sail straight into his arms, but midway across her conjured ring, she sank and settled to her knees. Bathed in a beam of intense lunar light, all around her the circle grew radiant. Flinging moonward her arms in adoration, Mei-Yue seemed poised to fly towards its call as her image appeared to lengthen and stretch toward the sky. Caught in a dream from which he was loath to awaken, Rowan gazed as if bound by a spell.

Unsure of how long he’d been standing there, hypnotically held by the unfathomable performance, Rowan realized the moon hung much lower in the west. Within the magic circle, the moonlight grew dim and the witch who was Mei-Yue shrank back into the body of a wistful girl. Apparently unsuccessful in her endeavor, a whimper of dismay escaped as she rose slowly to her feet, but showing no further sign of disappointment, turning towards Rowan, she smiled. Extending her arms, palms upwards, she curled her wrists inward until her fingertips touched against her breasts. This was a summons not meant for resisting. Feeling the strange and weightless sensation that he too was floating, Rowan was drawn once more into her embrace.

Moon of Rowan Wolfe



Faire Wood

Emerald wood where I wander,
silence this self‘s need to ponder-
a heart grown stale and not above
collapsing from this toil of love.

No more do dream of maidens fair,
their scented oils, their braided hair,
their girlish games of kiss and peek,
a winsome bore, a wine too weak.

With charms displayed through evening’s mist,
a wood nymph robed in shifting wisps
of vapors spun into a gown,
emerges from the trees’ surround.

Beneath the gaze of rising moon,
in twilight tones she hums a tune,
seducing with her glance and gait
desire for a wildwood mate.

Her lithesome limbs and secret bough,
enfold me in her glamour’s glow.
Lips a-thirst for strange encampment
drink from leaves in vines’ enchantment.

Our dance begins in naked dusk.
Machines of men may rot to rust.
I breath her scent and hold it fast,
then beg the night to ever-last.

SS Matthews