Courting Disaster

I was twenty-three when I saw her first,

Without a word of a lie,

She had wandered into the woods by me

With a basket, held on high,

Her auburn hair reflected the sun

And she flashed me a dazzling smile,

That turned my head to the way she led

As I followed her, over the stile.

 

She skipped along at a steady pace

Weaved in and out through the trees,

Collected the broad-rimmed mushrooms there

As she stopped, and fell to her knees,

Her dress flared out as it caught the wind

And her hair was floated wide,

I hid by a tree, and held my breath

As I thought of her, as a bride.

 

She had such a look of innocence,

Was free as the birds of the air,

The legs and the grace of a peasant girl

Brought up in the great out-there,

She ran right up to a Woodsman’s house

That was hidden by branch and vine,

Then danced right in through the open door,

And then I knew; she was mine!

 

The door was closed when I finally knocked

But I heard a terrible moan,

And minutes later the door unlocked,

In the hall stood a fusty crone,

She stared at me through her hoary eyes

With never a hint of grace,

‘What do you want?’ she growled at me,

For the shock must have shown in my face.

 

‘That girl, who danced in a moment back,

I’m here to discover her name.’

‘There is no girl,’ said the ancient hack,

‘You’d better return where you came!’

‘I saw her enter, I must insist,

I’ll not be gulled by your lies!’

‘That girl’s been dead for a long time back,

You’d better leave now, if you’re wise!’

 

She slammed the door in my face just then

So I wandered back through the trees,

A raincloud covered the midday sun

And I felt the chill of a breeze,

The rain came down as I walked back home,

Climbed over the ricketty stile,

Was drenched to the skin as I wandered in,

And thought to resort to guile.

 

For days I lingered by that old track,

The place that I’d seen her first,

I felt so miserable, holding back,

As I thought, and feared for the worst,

What if the girl was a sprite, who’d died,

Just as the old crone said?

Try as I might, I couldn’t believe,

Nor get her out of my head.

 

I finally went to the Woodsman’s house

And I hid in a patch by the vine,

When suddenly out of the door came tripping

The girl, with her eyes a-shine,

She skipped away with her basket, filled

With linen and loaves and cheese,

And I caught her then in a shady glade

As she stopped, and fell to her knees.

 

‘I hoped you’d come,’ were the words she said

As she laid a cloth on the ground,

‘I have to hide from that grey old witch

So I go where I’ll never be found.’

She broke the bread and she poured the wine

And we ate and drank in the glade,

My mind was filled with a sudden chill

But I thought of fun in the shade.

 

‘So when are you going to kiss me, then?’

She said when we finished our feast,

‘I’ve fed your animal spirits, now,

It’s time I was paid, at least!’

I kissed her there in the shady glade

And we tumbled there in the leaves,

Then I fell asleep, and she’d gone when I

Awoke, and the heart, it grieves.

 

I stumbled home, but was feeling faint

I had aches and pains in my head,

I staggered through to the bedroom, then

I found her asleep in my bed,

She woke and sat, and she stared at me

But her face had begun to change,

There were lines and wrinkles around her eyes

And her hair was grey with age.

 

‘I need you now that my time is short,

Come and rest your weary head,’

I caught a glimpse in the mirror then

And it filled me full of dread,

For the face of a man of middle age

Stared back at me from the glass,

‘Just what have to done to me?’ I said…

‘Do you really have to ask?’

 

‘I fed on your animal needs, and you

Gave something to set me free,

If you want me to be a bright young thing

Then you must replenish me.’

I saw she aged by the minute there

And she soon let out a moan,

For lying in bed was a figure of dread,

That hoary old witch, the crone!

 

I’m far too weak to get out of bed,

But Elli goes out on her own,

She carries her basket into the wood

For the mushrooms she eats alone,

My beard is grey and I dread each day

As she bleeds my life from its core,

But she’s as lovely as ever she was

At a hundred and twenty-four!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Tate Morgan]

Of course only you could think of this story. men we are so debase arent we? We would follow a stream till it petered out and worry for tomorrow the day after. Probably a bit of truth to this tale .All of us have heard of a old wench that drove a man to his grave with her bitterness

[Ravyne Hawke]

Another excellent poem, David. It's such a nice fairytale until you realize that if you want something to be true, you have to give of yourself.

[Marie]

A succubus of sorts I gather...?

[Mic]

Ah, there's a twist on stolen youth. Excellent tale, David.

This one is extra clean and such an easy read. Most fun!

[Jasmine]

I love your fluidly rhyming fairytale. I like stories. I enjoyed the quaint descriptions. A nice read, thanks for sharing.