The Sage (Verse Xi, Magda The Witch) Poem by Warren Atherton

In a far distant place in the Tillanho north,
Stands a tower jutting half a mile high.
Like a granulite epitaph menacing forth
To the heavens - a graptolite spy!

Gramineous plains that envelope its’ base
Stretch as far as the good eye can see.
Where red-tinted hollyhocks grapple for space,
Dispossessed of their strong-holding spree.

There a cold, restant wind moans the day and the night
And in stark veneration it wails,
As it haunts through the tower like a spectre in flight,
Unforgiving and desperate it sails…

The years have long passed since old Magda was there,
And her dread of divulsion bears cold.
Would she find her lost tower now a ramshackle lair
Of languescent, cold spirits of old?

“But revenge is so sweet when your foe thinks you’re dead
And death too is so full of surprise”.
So while lay in that ditch eating worms from its’ bed,
Spat a curse on the girl she despised.

Old Magda the Witch dressed in soiled, black attire
Stood atop of the place where she fell.
She was zealous with rage with a heart burning fire,
One true advocate sent up from hell.

Now before she could contemplate Gretchel the White,
To her Tower she must hastily flee.
Where her cauldrons and potions lay dormant as night,
‘Waiting her incarnation with glee.

In her hands was a worm-eaten, rotting old broom
Placed strategically facing the north.
As she started to chant it rose up from her tomb
Racing skywards to carry her forth.

Over precipice, edifice, orifice flew,
Like a gale as it circled the earth.
And on seeing young children she cackled anew
As she praised the Dark Lord for re-birth.