our witch

the widow, at number nineteen;
our witch, with a coven of cats,
familiars, concealing their teeth;

we conjured her pointed black hat;
a packed cone, and the devil pulling

the broom that she took
to the path was our proof
of her night-sweeping flights
by the cutting-edge moon,
a luminous reaper of sleeping, black fields;


her skirts hanging pockets
cut deep, bearing blades
and skyclad, beneath;
we peered through the hedges
organic green ramparts;

she snipped at her greenery,
herbs for her potions,
poisons, her poultices;
each cutting laid for a spell
in a wicker basket;

we spied on our witch, thrilled,
and while the witch never looked up,
she knew we were there, and so did we.