Poem

End of August and the bonfire smoke

climbs up the apple tree,

obscures the leaves and fruit

and double-masks the cloud-veiled, rounded moon.

Into the silence a dull apple thud,

and screech owl, calling, far away.

Twigs crackle

while the witch leans on her stick and smiles into the dusk.

The moon, amazed,

stares at the sudden bonfire blaze

as cloud and smoke are gone.