Hearthfire from hut shone in dark forest,
Beams amid the black as the shadow shape
Crept in curves, closing in to sweet smell
Of frying fish, rich clotted cream

Inside, intent, curling over cauldron,
Worried witch watches bubbling boil
Of - not food, but potential potion
Needing naught but single scrap

Of minced fresh meat, mammalian,
But low in larder, she growls greenly
'Til shadow shape slinks down through door,
Trim tabby with mouse in mouth

Sets it solemnly at her feet. Pleased, she pounces,
Places it in potion, fire fulminates
She seizes perch from pan, holds hand
Out with offer, tabby takes generous gift...

Lives ever linked, compact complicit.