Especially for Halloween, the poem I read at 42 Worcester tonight – spooky
In the depths of night the sky is sulky,
walkers set out for the brow of the hill.
Around British Camp and down, down Shire Ditch,
ill-willed faeries live, love, fly and thrill.
They avoid Waum’s Cave for fear of the witch
who lives alone, low, deep in the dell.
A crossroads appears, with pointing way stones,
to north, to south, direct the unwary.
No-one can vouchsafe their accuracy,
they seem not to know it pays to be chary.
The ill-willed fae move the markers and so
wenders and walkers strong boots go astray.
The witch steps on twigs and rattles old leaves
and the sky darkens more, charcoals to grey,
turns to pitch black and torch batteries grieve,
the walkers now feeling, stealing their way
over hillocks and humps, bracken and hay
in the depth of the night, at the end of the day.
A night to walk but not to splurge talk
if you think you know what’s good for you.
Believe what happens to those who imagine
and believe that it can be true.
Polly Robinson © 2013