The moon is full, white and wild,
its bony smile malice-taut,
all a-brim with ill-laid plans.
In its hands, a bubbling pot
foretells quick death. Cats and kings
alike hear it sing its song,
its ode to chill havoc wrought
with grievous thought, bleak and wrong.
This rather overblown and Octoberesque awdl gywydd was written for this week's Format Challenge. Check my post at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for the rules and link up!
