An old book of recipes I sat reading,
beneath a lamp's flickering glow,
spattered pages with ingredients from ages
and notes that the reader might know,
measurements added and taken away
became blurred to my weary eyes,
Then the ancient scrawl began to crawl,
leaving me fear-frozen in surprise.
The words dripped almost soundlessly
from the pages into a heap on the floor,
Then they scrittched and scratched until at last
they stood poised at the open door,
shut tight and latched but a moment ago,
keeping back the black night and chill,
When with much groaning and ghostly moaning
slowly opened by its own free will.
The words lined up precisely,
dotting eyes and crossing every "t",
Then slipped from my sight into the night
to fill some witch's recipe.
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