Witch Wind

"That is no breeze," the young girl says,

"It's a witch's breath exhaling.

And better that you stay indoors,

Before it starts to wailing

And ripping branches free

Of trees, and snapping

Wildflowers at the stem

And with incessant rapping

At your door, begging you open,

So as to sweep you in her flow.

Better a knife blade in the heart,

Than be a witch's beau."

I thank her for her warning then,

Say I will stay indoors,

Not open up to anything,

No witch will get her claws

In me this restless windy night,

Her black arts wont prevail,

I'll be no old hag's fancy man,

No broom's sad human sail.

Eventually the wind dies down

Or blows to distant climes,

And midnight passes, says the clock,

With chilling chortling chimes.

It's time for me to prowl the streets,

Seek out a virgin's blood,

Suck clear the veins of life and love

Then chew my crimson cud.

1 seek no throats of harridans,

No banquet of an age

That scars this flying devilry,

That will not sate my rage.

Better that girl from before,

The one gave me the warning,

I'll thank her for her good advice,

Ami maybe, some sweet morning

When I lie in my coffin bed,

And she dwells in another,

I'll tell her winds may come and go,

But death's a faithful lover.






John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become” with work upcoming in Big Muddy, Prism International and Pinyon.