The trek had been long
Hooded against the biting cold
She can see her destination.
The moon sits above the castle
As if showing her the way
Her feeble light overshadowed
By its luminescence.
The lights in the castle tell her
He is home, no doubt honing
His brooding self.
“What will I do,” she thinks,
“If they refuse to let me in the gate?”
As she approaches she hears the dogs,
They can smell her coming
She shivers as she recalls their teeth bared at her.
Around the final bend in the road
The gates loom high above her
As if heralding the fight she knows
She is heading into.
From the folds of her gown
She withdraws her wand
There is work to be done.
Written for: https://helenevaillant.com/2019/02/26/10678/
Morpethroad 
Wonderful writing!!! 😊
Hi Beckie, thanks for your lovely comment.
Nice one Michael
Thanks Di.
A delightful write Michael. Magic wand at work…
Thanks Helene fun as always
Your welcome Michael.
To hone one’s brooding self … like that what that conjures … in a story, not in actuality. 🙂
I think such behaviour should stay in the story
Yea, I’m not sure I want to be around someone who hones their brooding self. Sounds kinda psychopathic. 🙂