Grisa the nomadic witch,
found her final pitch,
many a year ago,
she had started losing her flow.
The flow of magic,
life and limb,
terribly tragic,
the light grows dim.
Her life was grand and vast,
over 600 years she has passed,
through mighty mountains, desolate deserts,
settled, finally in her forest.
One remaining bottle of sorcery,
perched, waiting, on her caravan wall,
memories captured and safely stored,
preventing loss from inevitable mind’s fall.
Lifting the bottle with grace,
an uncharacteristic stumble,
remembering not to race,
taking care to avoid a fumble.
With a satisfying pop of cork,
reflective congratulations declared,
long, unexpectedly difficult work,
this elixir, potion, tincture, not to be shared.
With a swig and a meditative free fall,
a rushing feeling, bypassing any wall,
staring around at the countless grains,
sea of sand, wind wild, eyes suffering pains.
Weaving and waddling, step by step,
a colourful oasis, open for rest,
her caravan grinding to a brisk halt,
burning sensations, skin, forehead, toast.
What a refreshing blue,
she will never forget the hue.
A wash of healing cold,
invigorating, never gets old,
bountiful trees and flora,
a stunning, heart-warming aura.
At peace in a desolate waste,
she tells herself, her last place,
will be engulfed in fragrant pine,
that will be simply divine.
Returning to the forest shroud,
an elusive light, ever so proud,
her caravan revealing cracks,
not something she herself lacks.
With a clatter and a gentle crash,
the bottle falls, but didn’t smash,
her body loosening, fluidly it drops,
the time has come, for her it stops.
On her face a smile stretched,
gilded by slender beams of light,
in her mind, a picture she sketched,
her home, resting place, glittering and bright.