The Witch at Arbor LowA Poem by David Lewis PagetAnnie
Trembles had met the witch As
she sat at Arbor Low, Her
tears were thick and her heart was sick, She
had no place to go, She’d
sought the old Stone Circle out, And
thought to divine the lore Of
the old Brigantes with their Druid chants; Then
she met Susannah Straw. Susannah
Straw was a wily witch Who
lived by her wits, and spells, She
kept the faith of her pagan race Designing
and dressing wells. She’d
conjure the odd love potion, And
she’d make the kine run dry, If
a body was too outspoken She
would give them the evil eye! Annie
had been heartbroken when She
heard that the blacksmith, Tom, Announced
he was marrying Rachel Greene, The
girl from the Nether Farm, She’d
worshipped Tom from a distance Since
he’d kissed her, under the tree, But
that was back in a Christmastime, And
she’d thought: ‘He doesn’t love me!’ She
opened her heart to Susannah Straw By
the stones of Arbor Low, With
a flood of tears she unburdened years Of
a passion that hurt her so, The
witch had gathered the mandrake root Some
orange to make it sweet, The
heart of a dove, some powdered blood And
a smidgin of ambergris! ‘You
need to feed him the potion soon, Two
days is all it will keep, Then
once he’s fed it will turn his head, It
will make his Rachel weep!’ So
Annie went to the Inn that night And
tipped it into his jar, And
Tom had quaffed in a single draught Then
fallen over the bar! He’d
worked at the forge that Saturday, But
felt so queer in his head, He
pumped away at the bellows ‘til The
coals were glowing red, Then
Rachel called for a sweet caress From
the lips of her dear betrothed, But
Tom recoiled as his lips were soiled By
the woman he suddenly loathed! His
hammer lay on the anvil there, He
seized, and he raised it high, Then
split the head of the girl he’d said Was
to be his beautiful bride, She
lay on the floor, unmoving So
he hid her, under the hay, Then
tucked the hammer beneath his belt, And
some rope for the come-what-may! His
steps soon led him to Arbor Low By
the time that the sun was high, And
Annie Trembles looked up to smile: ‘My
Tom! Oh my, Oh my!’ But
Tom was surfacing out of his trance And
he seized poor Ann by the hair, Then
cried as he brought the hammer down: ‘I
am lost in the pit of despair!’ He
turned to the gibbering Arbor Witch, And
dragged her over the hill, Then
hung her high on the nearest tree As
she kicked, and squirmed, and squealed. Once
back at the forge, he cut his throat And
lay by his lost love’s side, Where
his blood was wedded to hers at last, The
groom, and his cold, dead bride! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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