It was dawn and the air smelled of damp moss and something faintly sweet and calming. Dahlya stood at the edge of the wood, her brows furrowed as she admired the dewy leaves on a big old oak tree.
It was the morning of her sixteenth birthday, a day for cakes, laughter and celebration with her friends for she stood on the cusp of womanhood, the promise of adulthood just ahead.
But it seemed her day would not go as she had fantasised. Her grandmother had left an instruction carved into the oak tree before which she stood. Spells must be spoken as verse or you speak mere words.
She had never been good at poems so how was she going to be good at spell work and find her niche as a witch. That was when she knew being an adult was no fun.
Every witch in her family came into her full powers at sixteen. Her grandmother had summoned rain from a cloudless sky which got the town talking while her mother had healed a broken leg with a single spell. Now everyone waited to discover what she could do.
But she had to get her spell right to perform something spectacular and earn a place in the family spellbook alongside the spells her ancestors had passed down.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, she thought with a sigh, rubbing her temple. She cleared her throat and tried to light the lantern at her feet.
“Flame arise and brightly burn
Make this dark path…uh…easier to….turn?”
The lantern spluttered once then died with a rude little pop. A squirrel nearby chattered in what sounded like laughter. Dahlya groaned in frustration, stomping her feet as though she was five again.
Then an older witch stepped into the clearing with a grin, her eye twinkling. Dahlya froze for a moment before sighing with relief seeing it was Margot, her mother's friend.
She pouted, her gaze on the lantern. “You saw that, huh?”
Margot chuckled. “I heard you. You've got power, child and it leaks from all your pores. But power without shape and faith is just air.” Dahlya couldn't take her eyes off the wise witch whose eyes glowed with wisdom as she talked. “Spells need form and rhythm. They need you to write a poem that your magic can wear like a coat. Get it?”
Dahlya’s shoulders slumped. “I can't write a poem. Not a good one.”
“Then write whatever comes to you,” Margot said simply. “Magic doesn't care about perfection but truth. Speak what is true in the shape it asks for.”
Dahlya nodded, took a deep breath and tried once more but slower, letting the words come naturally without forcing them to rhyme. As the lantern bloomed into steady golden light, she shrieked and jumped into Margot's arms.
That evening, she walked home under a sky beginning to fill with stars.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "write a poem”.
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