Full moon

A whisper of winter plays on harvest moons lips.
In the blackness like a beacon She glows clear and bright.
A bat catching the insects as it rises and dips.
Owls swooping on their prey then climbing into flight.

Soft shadows falling in rumours of things past.
Rustling of crisp leaves as creatures tiptoe through.
Glimpses of witches as their spells they do cast.
Remembering the Wiccan creed ” no harm should you do”.

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