When Witches Were Scarce

She stirs the concoction,
licks stewy broth from the spoon.
It is missing something.
She lurches back to the swamp,
blinking through blue fog and mosquitoes.
She reaches into the waters
full of ancient vegetation.
A bullfrog looms
and gloats his gravel-voiced warning.
She creeps on her belly,
crooning hypnotically.
Reaching,
reaching,
skeletal arms
disturb the flat melancholy water.

He utters no cry
as his toes nick the scalding liquid,
remembering when he once was a prince
and witches were scarce.