On the side of the hill, late afternoon,
air brittle as a crisp packet,
we made our way, cauldron held between us.
Patchwork of black on the golden floor.
Our hands smutty with barely dried paint.
Anna's idea, a riposte
to the boys' secret society, our coven
had rules as complex as the Masons',
a highway code for magic.
We eschewed frogs'legs and rats' tails, chose
a more glamorous concoction of
poached flowers, borrowed perfumes,
melted lipsticks. But the fire was real
and our passion,
as we danced beneath the burning trees,
holding each others'hands tightly,
for one moment
lifted me off my feet
into the autumn sky.