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.
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.