Witches

A be”witch”ing poem for the sake of the Halloween spirit.

In a city, on the border
Of Greenwich Harbor and Bly, Maine
Lies a scene, dubbed out of order
The people don’t like to explain
For when nightfall finds its calling
And the ground is damp with dew
A strange, mist-like fog starts falling
Believed from the witches brew.

When the haze drifts on the hillside
The scent of sulfur fills the air
Streaking ‘cross the ebbing high tide
Till the fog is everywhere
Then the night becomes quite stoic
‘Neath the bright yellow facade
And the townsfolk, not heroic
Find their shelter e’er abroad.

Thus, the city is a ghost town
Every night when dusk appears
But, alas, there’s milling around
In spite of the chills and fears
It is true, the rumored report
Of the fog-like mist and smell
For within a vacant resort
Is the place where witches dwell.

While the walls are swayed by motion
And the roof is half intact
The witches join to boil a potion
Made of decades old extract
To erase one’s recollections
Of the town that they once knew
Once they taste the rich confections
That are in the witches’ brew.

Minnie