White petunias made a happy, bright sight
Around the lair of the white witch.
So surrounded by beauty and light,
It gave the dark mage a painful twitch.
His sickness was incurable, burning hot,
All dark cures failed, until he found white.
Her cures were so learned and pure
He forever left behind his dark night.
He’d been angry, lonely and evil,
But with yarrow, dittany and hells bane
Gathered under the moon in a forest primeval,
The cure also turned him to swain.
For years he’d been impetuous and bad,
But no more would he stomp, crush or blight.
His dark eyes sparkled and were glad,
For when he met her, he found delight.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham