Deja vu

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!"