The witch’s shotgun sang like choking angels,

the screaming birds escaping death

so narrowly their tail feathers hummed.

She grumbled like that of a snivelling beast, turned

her back and hunched to her front door.

It whined open on aching hinges before yawning shut

once more.

With arthritic-ridden fingers she picked up a Molotov,

delicate like a diamond fragrance flask. On a silken-silver serviette

her husband handed her one night was written

words of passion and of peace. She scrunched it

lengthways, bunged the bottle, shook it

like all good cocktail waiters do.

On flame from ever-burning fire, she ignited cloth

and through an open window threw the weapon

at the blackened tree to char the birds and singe their

songs of summer breeze.

Like burnt snowflakes ashes fell and wood-smoke,

bird brains, lush green leaves all intertwined in

 pretty plumage which filled her house with

exotic perfume. 

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