by Gay Williford
Thirteen crones, clad in black,
paced around a fire …
their eerie chants and moans
mingling with the sounds of night.
It was October’s Hallowed eve–
cats hissed, bats flapped,
pumpkins glowed; ghosts booed
and skeletons rattled.
Round and round these old hags pranced
amidst the heat and glow,
stronger, stronger grew their spell
until the night air vibrated.
Trees shook, kids shrieked,
owls shuddered; ghouls groaned.
Idle broomsticks swept the clearing
awaiting these phantasmal riders,
who hopped astride and Al-a-ka-zam!
These wooden steeds ascended.
Up through the clouds, up to the moon,
thirteen capes did flutter,
turning, twisting, spinning round,
friction sparked and smoke swirled–
beware this spell these witches wove …
it was too hot, too hot to bear …
Soon gray ashes floated down …
and Poof! they were no longer there!