Night sky is a witch machine.
It's an assembly line
of sorcery, wonder,
and out the end pop
hags on broom-backs.
Night sky is a witch poem.
Words cobweb on
star-smoldered paper.
Lines rattle and hiss
and sometimes slick the air
with lightning.
Meaning is as ephemeral
as the faces in the golden moon,
the whipping wings of bats,
the taste of light
on the tongue.
When done, I drop my pen
and it mutates into
a cackling crone.
Night sky is a witch shrine,
a shadow altar,
a witch prison
with hours for bars,
a witch forest
of peaked-capped firs.
Night sky is the cat
that curls up at my feet,
purrs softly,
as I peer out
to where I think I'll,
any moment, see it
on a witch's shoulder,
flying by.
Originally published by Writer's Haven, May 2017
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, the Bayou Review and Plainsongs.
