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
where ill-willed faeries live, love, fly and dance.
They avoid Waum’s Cave for fear of the witch
who lives alone, low down deep, far away.
A crossroads appears, with pointing way stones,
to north, to south, to direct the unwary,
no one can vouchsafe their accuracy.
Do the walkers’ know it pays to be chary?
The ill-willed fae move the markers
so the 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 as torch batteries run out
the walkers now feeling, stealing their way
over hillocks and humps, bracken and bumps,
in the depths of the night at the end of the day.
Polly Robinson © 2014