After the incessant glare of the everyday bowed our heads to our knees, brought us crawling towards night like pilgrims, plugged in, self-flagellating still, it took a star shower to return our sight - We crept from room to stairs over a familiar path towards the open. Some instinct kept us together – like herd animals, like migratory birds.
The open field ate up our noise. No white light, no man-made glow only the bump of moths against our hands and necks, the gentle clasp of long grass as we pushed through like fishermen, wading deeper. We cracked screens, cracked glow sticks, bottle caps, spread our arms to the sky.
Our circle glowed in shifting shades of green, purple, pink, yellow. We attracted company, who drifted around the edges while we danced. We crowned one another, twirled until the lights blurred into one. And became a concert of bodies, joyous, unaware – undocumented. The sacrilege of it spurred us further. The time passed and did not. We formed a circle and cast it from our lights, daring ourselves
to jump inside. We emerged changeling children, flushed and new again, neon sainted angels with pink halos glowing under the stars.
Charlotte Newbury is a poet from South East England. She enjoys writing about witchcraft and ecofeminism, and would love book recommendations on either. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dawntreader, LandLocked, Call Me [Brackets] and others. You can find her on Twitter @charnewbpoet.