Hedgewitch Incantation 1973

Reg marked up the newspapers

With a stubby pencil and wet-licked thumb

While we boys waited for our bundles

Gummy eyed and sleep-shocked hair.

He was alright, Reg. With his limp and his Legion tie.

One time he paused behind the counter,

Before sending us out into the blowy dawn,

His jaw trembling as he tried to force his words

Into shape.

‘That Miss Prudames,

In the bungalow with the red door

Near the holloway.

She was in the Wrens. Wireless girl

Talking into the air.

Now I’ve been around see. Western desert 42.

Lights in the darkness. Voices in the night.

That sort of thing. As we if were out at sea

And not on watch in a dry old wadi.

I saw her go round the back of the library

Where the thorn-guarded mulberries grow.

I followed, but she wasn’t there.

Good looking woman once. Must have been.

On the banks of the Rife I walked behind her.

Thirsty willows wind-switched as she went down to the beach.

If it was a bird across my eyes I don’t know,

But for a nippy spasm I could see right through her.’

None of us were surprised.

Miss Prudames with her mouth red as a whistle

And spikey-retired glasses.

She wore a scowling crow of anger

Always on her brow.

Now Reg gathered himself again…

‘Last night when the dusk was bosky

She was in the fields and turned back towards me

As if she would walk past.

But she stopped to whisper in my ear,

Although her eyes never met mine

And her voice was reeds and rain -

Come down to the spawning pond.

See the white back of a naked girl wading navel-deep into green water.

Her arms spread wide, the weeds parting around her hips.

Or will it be the bold ghost of a widow, welcoming the night come at last-

Or a witch under a new moon, willow leaves rattling silver in her hair?

Or will it be a half-sunk, lopped and crooked tree, two limbs askew?

Shallow-slip pool, lapping against a woman’s thighs, her palms upturned,

Or the prickling ricket-perch of your imagination?

Steven O’Brien