DUSK IN AUTUMN 2026

The moon is like a scimitar, A little silver scimitar, A-drifting down the sky. And near beside it is a star, A timid twinkling golden star, That watches like an eye.   And thro’ the nursery window-pane The witches have a fire again, Just like the ones we make,— And now I know they’re having tea, I wish they’d give a cup to me, With witches’ currant cake. - Sara Teasdale

Black tea, currant cake, mandrake root, a whirl of dried leaves, and hearthsmoke.