A little something to get you in the mood for Spooktober
That it was a witch's abode
Even a child would have known.
Not by the way the chimney leans
Or its crumbling walls of stone,
But by the cawing of the crows
Perched along the sagging eaves
In a jagged sable row.
Shaking a fist at the ebon host
I twist the lock with rusted key
And cry, "I am not she, I am not she!"
That it was a witch's garden plot
Would seem just as likely as not,
less from the weed choked beds
Of vervain, tansy and hyssop,
the bloodwart's leaves veined with red
Or the verdant spillage from overturned pots,
Than by the black striped lizards sunning,
Torpid on barren rocks
I shake my trowel as they sleep
And mutter, "I am not she, I am not she!"
That it was a witch's cellar store
Was clear but not by the earthen floor
Or cobwebs draped across the room,
But from the pile of rodent bones
collecting in a corner behind the door,
And mold creeping along the wall
Like a plague of musty gloom,
A curse foretold by ancient lore.
As I draw the ragged broom to sweep
I whisper, "I am not she, I am not she!"
It was a witch's kitchen hearth
And I knew it from the start,
Not by the drying herbs hanging from the beams
Or by the kettle rounded and dark,
But by the bubble and hiss of pungent steam
As it sweats from the ember's art
Igniting a blaze in its fiery heart.
Inside the pot, a concoction seethes,
As I grasp the spoon and being to stir,
Chanting, "I am she, I am she!"
