Perhaps tonight
the slightly waning moon
will bathe us in her presence.
That presupposes the clouds,
so very jealous of late,
allow her to appear. They,
and the unending winter,
are the evil stepsisters,
and they have neither
justice nor compassion
for the moon or for us.
And so, to save their
maleficent case, I shall
again, tomorrow morning,
take up the shovel
and imagine my boots
are crystal slippers.


Macbeth had a witches problem,
but that hardly made him unique.
It’s true that Scottish witches
are more difficult to deal with
than those of much of the rest
of Western Europe, something to do
with being under English dominion
for so damned long that Erse
is a nearly forgotten tongue,
but you’d think a General would
at least speak the local lingo.
Still, you have to wonder
just how things could have
turned out if only he had
a pair of ruby slippers
to get him back to Inverness,
for an afternoon dip in the Loch.