A be”witch”ing poem for the sake of the Halloween spirit.
In a city, on the border
Of Greenwich Harbor and Bly, Maine
Lies a scene, dubbed out of order
The people donâ€™t like to explain
For when nightfall finds its calling
And the ground is damp with dew
A strange, mist-like fog starts falling
Believed from the witches brew.
When the haze drifts on the hillside
The scent of sulfur fills the air
Streaking â€˜cross the ebbing high tide
Till the fog is everywhere
Then the night becomes quite stoic
â€˜Neath the bright yellow facade
And the townsfolk, not heroic
Find their shelter eâ€™er abroad.
Thus, the city is a ghost town
Every night when dusk appears
But, alas, thereâ€™s milling around
In spite of the chills and fears
It is true, the rumored report
Of the fog-like mist and smell
For within a vacant resort
Is the place where witches dwell.
While the walls are swayed by motion
And the roof is half intact
The witches join to boil a potion
Made of decades old extract
To erase oneâ€™s recollections
Of the town that they once knew
Once they taste the rich confections
That are in the witchesâ€™ brew.