Witches Wind. Poem by Anthony Fry

Midnight thunder rumbling, in the moonlight.
It's for her pleasure, when the winds Dance.

Frowsty by a fire, your spells stir witch.
With the scent of the frost, a freezing wind.

Wailing spells, cast evil witch-craft devices.
But stillness is long preserved, a wind drifts.

Fathom out, a lugubrious witches measure.
You'll rue it, a witch face on the wind edge.

Riding her broomstick, chimneys do joust.
Your mortal beauty, I chase on the wind.