The Last Witch

No heat rose from the chimney pot tonight.
Apollonius hissed his contempt as we’d flown over roof tops and tree tops blazing with false light.

There’s no darkness anymore
for a fire’s glow to cast shadows in the corners, on the ceilings, on the floor.
Mystical creatures are conjured on the glowing screens held in hands in homes.
Children no longer seek comfort from the Pooka’s howls or the Banshee’s moans.

No one looks up, or out, anymore.
Hovering at the window, I wonder.
When Dullahan comes to carry this last believer home,
will the Death Coach carry me?
Not even the heather fibres of my broom can sweep away this change.

Getting cold (or is it old?)
My familiar urges flight.
Lamenting Sámhain,
I am alone this night.

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