The Witches’ Pool
Grampa, what happened to the tree
to make such a big tear in its side?
It was a limb that grew too heavy,
then, with weather, and time,
it tore away from the trunk,
screaming, although no man heard,
for the tearing of the trees happens
when men are cowering in fear,
or dreaming in their beds,
about women, or witches, or war.
But look at the tear and see who lives,
hidden in there. The Barbastelle bat,
the Natterer bat,
that’s me Grampa!
Yes dear, that’s you, the wee batty natterer
who keeps me strong on my toes.
Have I told you about the witches’ pool?
It’s over here at the edge of the woods.
In summertime when the frogs breed here,
the witches come to fill their purses
with spawn and tadpole and slime.
Don’t be silly Grampa, there’s no such thing
as witches, everyone knows that these days!
So I tell her how the pool was really formed,
by a Luftwaffe bomb, jettisoned on its way back
from Clydebank to Germany, screaming
into the fresh green earth, the sapling roots,
the invisible victims: the whole, unholy truth.
The witches’ pool is the innocent tale,
perhaps we should leave things this way.
16/2/23
-
Author:
FrasMac (
Offline) - Published: December 3rd, 2024 13:43
- Comment from author about the poem: Inspired by my then seven year old granddaughter, whilst walking in the local woods which I've wandered all my life.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments2
Enjoyable read
thank you
You are very welcome
A complex tale told of a complex environment, and I liked it very much.
thank you
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.