POEM TWENTY FOUR

Sometimes

 

The witch lifts her staff at dusk,

shimmers as last light

glances off wood and metal.

She disappears like a contrail

in the wind,

a glamour of pentagram

fades into night.

 

Marmalade cat waits,

watches from the window.

He taught her well.

Image

Image Source:

creativecat.net

Poem by C.J. Prince

2013

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