He could not do what she had asked,
A poem on a witch,
His prep;
And he came to me to ask
About the dark things of the mind,
About the shaking of the soul,
About a fear-bright October.
And he knew they were not - “Were they? Witches?
Well, you’ve never seen one, have you?
Ever?”
He tried so hard; and fell.
Tears fell. Night
fell.
Brought the dark things of the mind.
And I, watching,
Saw it then,
Clinging to his back with pen-nib claws,
Howling round and round his caverned mind,
Raking wide his red-rimmed eyes,
Tear-torn, hopeless
In their blind and desperate fumbling over
Sharp-gnawed bones of meaningless
Piled obstacles called words.
Marked.
The miserable child was over-looked;
The evil eye flew on him, searched;
The spell despair drew tighter bands
Around his hollow heart...
“She’s hurting me; she’s always hurting me.”
Where is the spell
To wake him in a light of understanding,
To crack the demon fetters of defeat?
A fear-bright October,
A witch behind his shoulder.
She lies behind his eyes
And stirs the dark things of his mind;
She shafts a poisoned thorn
And shakes his soul.
(November,
1977)
