When my niece needed a poem about witches for a school project, she asked me to find one for her. When that proved difficult, I wrote this for her instead.

Dark silhouette against silver moon
astride a broomstick in the gloom;
soaring over treetops black
long shawl flying, pointed hat -
the story book witch is on the prowl.
Who sees her journey? Mr Owl.

He hoots his greeting from the trees
as she passes by with witchly ease,
and listens to her evil screech
as she swoops and passes within reach.
Her cackle echoes in the night
even as she flies far out of sight.

Round cauldron she and others prance,
cackling loud in ritual dance.
"Eye of newt and powdered bone"
these aged hags their spells intone,
and laughing wildly, eyes ashine,
look to the moon for answering sign.

As moons light dims and dawns sun shines
there comes an end to ritual times,
and back on broomstick headed home
she skims the early sea tides foam,
dark silhouette against the clouds
the story book witch in her long black shroud.