Stygian Dyer

The black clouds drag like threadbare cloth
frayed upon the night’s washboard sky,
stained by the brew of a witch’s broth
and the ancient crone’s milk-moon eye.
Crook-fingered oak trees stir the froth
and work the rags as hoarse winds sigh,
shaking, incensed, becoming wroth
as clouds unravel in the dye.

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