Her clothes are dusk, folding shadows
She walks barefoot across the land
Her hair is Grey with streaks of white
that fall as snow as soft as sand
Her eyes are brown some would say black
Her face has wisdom in its lines
She is the crone, her time is winter
This Goddess can be harsh or kind
She touches flowers with her kiss
Her mouth is white, her breath is cold
And anything that's green and gentle
Soon does wilt and leaves do fold
Her hand caress the evergreens
where beasts do sleep in warm deep lairs
But they should mind this ladies presence
for cold can kill those not aware
But she has harsh though natural ways
The cold brings with it a sound sleep
And only old and weak unable
Shall sacrifice themselves to winters keep
Or feed another, clothe and wrap
Their resting bodies wont be found
She may decide who lives or dies
But to the earth their souls are bound
But winters short for those who thrive
Oh blessed hag, old winters crone
Soon the sun with shine once more
Spring time will have your icy throne
When the sun returns and darkness leaves
And the chill wont settle on your grange
Old Crone do sleep through summer months
until you feel the wind of change
'Winter Crone', by Audrey Haney
Art by Gill Smith