Clutching broomstick
Cackling loudly
She circles
Swoops
And dives.
She sings an enchanting ditty
As she passes across the Full Moon.
She’s searching for something…
She notices me, cackles once more and flies high into the morning sky, becoming a tiny speck against the bright whiteness of the Moon – before hurtling back down toward me at great speeds.
“’Tis the morrow” she breathes, “must be the aft, my timing ‘tis not yet right.
”Forgive my sorrow” she goes on, “think me daft, my pet is not in sight.”
Once again she soars into the brightening sky; this time away.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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