The Witch Ditch

Yellow wheat billows in the ditches
woven in wilted waves athwart the valley
like the hair of a hundred withered witches
all waiting for the Witching Hour to rally
so they may raise their sodden, sodded heads
beneath the wan moon and its waxen glow
and hex a thousand children in their trembling beds
with many a bad dream and many a woe.
Their wrinkles are cut deep in cheek and brow
to sow sorrows wherever they may grow
not unlike drowning ditches cut by the furrowing plow
in this wet, wicked, Winter tableau.

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