She told such stories

The old woman in the cottage on the hill

Under the old Oak that will be growing still

Even though the cottage has long gone

An eyesore so the story goes

But my mother said it was because she was called a witch

By the village folk

When the crops failed and the fish stopped jumping

Nobody thought to ask her, just torched the house

And ran her out of town

On the end of a pitchfork

Some say she cursed them all

But I like to believe she went to live with her cousin

In an old cornish village by the sea.

I liked her smart ways,

Allowing us kids to climb her tree, swing off the branches

Roll down the hill in the summer

Use our sledges in winter until Tommy Jameson broke his leg

She fixed it up nice, with a splint

But his mum and dad were still put out

Saying she was to blame

When I thought they were the ones who allowed their son to

Play unsupervised.

These were different days

Even the poultice she used which seemed

To heal the leg in no time at all was called some kind of magic

The vicar in the Methodist chapel

Spoke up on her behalf

But nobody seemed to listen.

Religion was always divisive

As the priest in the Church in the town square

Opposite the Olde Ship Inn rained hell

And damnation down upon her

Every Sunday from the pulpit

Wild hair flying, pop-eyes bulging

Out on stalks, nasal hair tickling his top lip

Spitting out phlegm like sparks from a fire.

He scared the pants off the little kids

More evil than most old witches is what I thought

But then I left town as soon as I was old enough

To make my own way in the world.

Many’s the time I wondered if I would meet the old woman again

Listen to her stories, of mischievous elves and rollicking trolls

Living in the cracks between the stones in her garden wall

How they would dance beneath the stars at midnight

Steal grain from Cutler’s barn

Ride on the backs of his sheep

Play peekaboo with each other through holes in garden fences

Stealing vegetables, tying farmer Jones’ bootlaces together.

We believed it when she said that they were

Watching through the wildflowers,

Waiting for him to come out in the morning

To put them on

Laughing when he fell

Waving through the cornstalks.

But nobody wanted to listen to his ‘mithering’

Whenever he moaned about it, after a skinful on a Friday night

In the Ship

Where the talk always turned to ex-communication.

But so many places seem the same to me

It is why I keep travelling

Maybe one day I will find that old woman

If she still lives

Sit by her fire one more time

And listen to the laughter in her voice

As she tells her stories.

What fun that would be

What fun.