An amalgamation of stuff I'd absorbed after reading all about how to write strange poetry. I won't bore you with forethought, just read the poem...
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
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