The day following Cawdor's capture
Was strange and grew stranger:
Relief from battle's end,
The weary ride's return.
Three witches in a fen
Pronounced Macbeth's sweet future  
Named him, "King," hereafter.

Their prophecy fazed him,
I think.

Aware their source could only be the Devil,
I queried them,
"Prophesy the future to my line."
Cackled utterances gave nothing to me,
Except the fathering of kings,
A promise I can only to leave to God.

Shrieking and smoking,
The hags evaporated
Leaving us shaking,
Alone in murky thought.

I obeyed, as much as I am able,
Macbeth's command
To leave the hellish messengers'
Words hanging in that fen.

Tonight Glamis has become Cawdor;
The day has trickled down to night;
I am out upon the battlements,
Too troubled now to sleep
While Macbeth snores, content.

He leaves to see his Lady in the morning.
King Duncan follows after
To celebrate the victory of Scotland,
To honor the bravest of his heroes,
The two-named Thane.

Here above the courtyard,
I pace beneath the tent of night,
As witches' words I mutter,
"And King hereafter."

Something is not right.