As the cauldron bubbles its messy brew
the witches turn away, the recipe
is not their own. They recite vicious spells.

The pouring: lick the mould first, the earth
fertile beneath the matted sward, tight knit,
leaves and stems, obsure fungi and mosses
in the half-light; the lowly crawling things.

Phoebus Apollo vanishes into the darkness,
the rising steam of midnight, witch-fed,
incantations in the shadows, crying.