The Witch of Aberdare

She stood in front of the mirror, staring

Combing her long dark hair,

A black cat jumped on her shoulder, purring

The Witch of Aberdare.

She took in the curve of her fulsome lips

And the dimple in each cheek,

‘Why can’t I find a lover for me?’

But the mirror didn’t speak.

 

She’d watched the girls from the village, keeping

Trysts with the ones they loved,

As hand in hand they kissed on meeting

Down in the darkening wood,

But nobody sought out Alison Gross

Where she stood by the wishing well,

Dropping her pennies in hopes that any

Would lure a man to her spell.

 

Her mother, Isabel Ingpen once

Had been raped by Jonathon Dread,

But then had spelled by the wishing well,

Put him in a garden bed.

She’d witched him into a barren seed

But the evil in him came through,

Sprouted there as a deadly nightshade,

Tall, and blocking the view.

 

She told her Alison, on her honour

Her father had come and gone,

‘But better avoid the Belladonna

You don’t know where it’s from.’

She taught her all of the witchcraft rules

Of philtres, potions and spells,

‘But try to avoid the world of fools,

And men, who fancy themselves!’

 

But Alison had a disposition

For loving, though no-one saw,

The teacher who gave her impositions,

The boy who stood by the door,

The Baker’s lad and the Butcher’s boy

And the gardener, mowing the green,

But nothing would turn their heads her way

She was Alison Gross, unseen.

 

She sighed and cried as she cast her spells,

She wept as they sauntered by,

So deep in love with one another

And gazing up at the sky,

But Halloween was a day away

And Alison formed a plan,

‘I’ll weave my spells out in the heather,

I’m going to get me a man!’

 

The children were out, were trick and treating

As Alison took her broom,

She flew to the local witches meeting

At Heatherdale, under the Moon,

She looked at the other witches there,

So old, so sad and alone,

She swore before she was old as they

She wouldn’t be left a crone.

 

She slipped away and she left the coven

Then stripped off her hat and cloak,

She lifted the cauldron off the oven

Went down to the giant oak,

The young were dancing and dunking apples

She wandered into the throng,

And a young man said with his laughing eyes,

‘This is where you belong.’

 

He danced her under the Hunter’s Moon,

And he stole the witch’s heart,

She knew, without a potion or philtre

They’d never be far apart.

She holds a baby high on her hip

As she combs her curling hair,

And her lover stays, to trade her kisses

The Witch of Aberdare.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Helena]

Reading your poetry my friend is like being drawn headlong into the story,, where I am immersed in the visions so cleverly penned. I feel I am the 'Witch" in this....completely under the spell of your words, unable to climb out to reality again. But I don't want to really, I could stay in this fantasy world forever. FANTASTIC...loved it David!

[TPK Stories]

You certainly know how to draw someone into your stories. . .another wonderful tale. . .

[TL Boehm]

Aw. A happy ending for the witch then. How sweet this one was!

[Valentine]

A different take on Halloween and witchcraft. I thought her buried dad might pop up but he didn't Kathie

[CreativeCookie]

I really love this poem! It shows witches in a new light. Everyone needs to find love, even spell casters and bewitchers.
Love,
CreativeCookie

[R Smith]

Another brilliant tale from your highly imaginative pen David, I must confess I could wish to inhabit this wild and wondrous world you live in, each poem is neatly planned and written with such charm and ease and every story is a book in waiting, love your work, thanks for sharing.

[Avinash]

No magic can make love happen neither manipulations. It happens on its own when you least expect it.
Very entertaining indeed.

[MomzillaNC]

What an engaging tale you'e woven for us. The meter carries you rolling along, denying any thought of stopping before the end. And the denouement satisfying in its completeness and the happy note it leaves behind.

[Marie]

Sometimes it's not a photion or philtre that's needed, but simply love--at the right time, in the right place, with the right man.