Witches
Witches come out,
on the darkest of night,
flying on their broomsticks,
across the halfmoon sky.
Dipping, and weaving,
just having some fun,
and for endless hours,
their broomsticks run.
Higher, and higher,
over the tallest of trees,
a convoy of withches,
enjoying the breeze.
Copyright © Christy Hardy | Year Posted 2008
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment