“Physicks, they would make me fainéant by their dreary prose should I listen.” she thought. “Droning on about leeches and bleeding, humors needing realigning. Good for all that I pay no heed and wander as I do.”

She went among the people, bundled in a cloak several sizes to large for her tiny frame. Within its deep pockets, her herbs for healing. Such as witch-hazel for burning throats and skin; chamomille for fussing babies and stomachs; corn-flowers for the brumally ills and sweating fevers.

For the asking, she would dabble in things only whispered of: love potions; with-or with-out child charms; and luxuria nostrums Such were concocted in her spell-binding lean-to hidden within the ancient pine forest where trees sing tales to each other. Here, nothing done in haste; all by the ancient rhythms – the sliver of silence between heart beats.

Lilting encantments during the ritual gathering of firewood, scouring her cauldron with burdock and nettles, arranging the ingredients upon her work table. When the full clear moon dappled and diffused light into the clearing, she sparked the fire and began her night’s labours.

concocted for mlmm’s “bonus wordle: “witch”

image: JW Waterhouse, The Magic Circle, 1886 (Wikimedia)