A figure dark in flowing cloak
Busy with a fire to stoke
Utters words both old and dry
And on this night is heard to cry
 
“Fire, burn my cauldron blue
Potentiate my wicked brew
Bring me smoke of sulphur green
That I may travel close. Unseen.”
 
Something rises through the trees
And hovers in the chilly breeze
A broomstick takes off, flying high
The witching hour is almost nigh
 
Ghostly Orb. King of the night
Reflects the twilight beasts in flight
A vapour trail of sulphur green
Is proof they fly this Halloween
 
Behind locked door and bolted gate
The townsfolk cower from their fate
Hidden in the gathering gloom
The smell of sulphur marks their doom
 
Rasping cackle heard aloft
As hidden broomstick touches soft
The faces of bewilderment
In fear of coming night’s intent.

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