Linda Scribbles











Hair in braids and wrapped up high,
tall, woolen socks and boots tied tight,
Ten oaken buckets, beeswax sealed,
Thus the Milker’s trek begins
For the Full Midnight Moon waits for no one.
The baker whispers to each brick of the oven,
The tailor lays silver needles in rows,
The bookkeep dusts each spine, pen, and shelf,
All only nod as the Milker by goes,
no break in their tasks can be spared
For the Full Midnight Moon waits for no one.
The shepherd anoints the sheep with their coven,
The beekeeper leads the bees in a dance,
The mayor and ther aide tamp down the grass circle,
The children laugh and they sing with the owls and cats,
The Milker marches on
For the Full Midnight Moon waits for no one.
Just down the hill, the cows are awaiting,
Washed and beribboned, and ready to rouse,
The buckets are set and each cow knows its duty,
The wind blows the clouds as the hour strikes Now,
The Full Midnight Moon arrives
And as the cows start to glow,
the Milker gets to work.
The buckets soon fill with warm liquid moonlight
And the village of witches come down the road to collect.
The chain of hands pass each bucket with care
To the circle waiting for this special night’s faire.
When the hour is done and the cows cease their glowing,
the Milker pats each in thanks for their showing.
The last of the crowd makes their way to the party,
the Milker trailing behind them waiting, hoping to see
the cows will fly soon, knowing their way
To the Full Midnight Moon and home there to stay.



et cetera
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