Which Craft

Widow Widdershins, from over yon hill,
Grows wolfsbane beneath her kitchen sill.
No man born, but that her knife,
First severed him from the cord of life.
While every girl, under gibbous moon,
Calls her 'mother' and inscribes a rune
Above the hearth. Her skyclad name,
In menstrual blood, within a woven frame
Of maidens' hair and dried spring flowers;
Which craft is testament to her powers.