The Old Witch Babysits

Under the green umbrella of the forest,  

she sits, bones creaking like old branches,  

with five baby dragons curled at her feet,  

scales glinting like forgotten coins,  

their breath warm as summer wind.  

She reads tales from cracked leather books,  

of ancestors who once ruled this earth,  

who brewed storms in cauldrons of shadow,  

and spoke with the tongue of fire itself,  

while the babies doze, tails twitching,  

dreaming of flight, of smoke and flame,  

of the day they too will hunt the skies,  

like their mother, who now glides silent  

over rooftops, her shadow a blade  

cutting through the moon's pale light.  

The witch smiles, toothless and wise,  

her voice a lullaby of ancient times,  

knowing that soon enough they will rise,  

spread their wings and taste the wind,  

but for now, they are still, and safe.  

She strokes the smallest one’s soft scales,  

as the forest hums its secret song,  

and somewhere far off, a scream echoes,  

faint as a memory, carried by the breeze,  

while the fire sleeps beneath her hand.