Witch.

The night was dark and cold and wet and the clouds were racing across the moon , pushed, chased,
by a fierce west wind and moving shadows ran across the land revealing a cottage here or an oak tree there and frightening cattle into motionless clusters in their muddy fields and the witch flew high , clinging tight to her besom , intent on her mission , no choice but to do what witches do. No
fireside chair tonight. No warm bed or comfort.
Cold, old , ageless face , black eyes seeking a guiding mark momentarily lit by the teasing orb, only witness to her pain, of the tears torn away by her flight, of the soundless cry of her despair.