No dirt under my fingernails, just an emergency tenner and
three plasters in my wallet. I am

bleaching the floors when you tell me that your
friend who is a Legitimate Witch is helping you

fight your bad dreams about your dead dad with herbs
and distance Reiki she learned from a barefoot New Ager

in the car park at Loughcrew; her English sneer
rings in my ears, and the patchouli stings my eyeballs.

I order my winter coat from Asos but what I need
is to fold my sigil under moonlight and think;

I attempt to discern what the situation requires,
but I’m surrounded by a murder of impatient crows

waiting for me to read aloud a New Scientist article
on quantum physics explaining the intricacies of non-linear time

and how to manifest high phosphorus cat food
while they sing me a song in exchange,

and I consider how unromantic and not-Bohemian it
is to say that I have clean hands and a PRSA.

A crow intervenes. From my shoulder she
pecks at my temple three times. She simply cannot

understand why I am bothered that you listen to someone who
calls her colouring book a grimoire.