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| In the light of dusk they come, Returning from a midnight run. A silken cat sits at the back Next to a discarded witch's hat. She climbs down from her broomstick Watching as the seconds slowly tick Away the hours until the morn, When Monday shall finally be born. She travels to her wooden podium-- Where rests a book of spells be gone-- And rustles through each page with care, Searching for the perfect curse to share With the one who called her out, Without saying what the need was about-- Only that she was needed fast To overcome fall's cool blast. So to her cauldron, she did hurry And cast a spell with herbs and curry-- Making a magic tea to drink-- One that the cold's breeze would think Was no more than a casual brew, Only meant for me and you, To chase away the chill that invades-- As stray goblins and ghouls play. Then to bed we can go and Wrap up in our cotton throws-- With warm drink and food in hand-- Finally ready to enter a dreamland That promises dreams of demon's wings And other frightening, and dark things. And to you she bids farewell, As she returns to the gates of Hell |
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