What is it my pretty, asked the crone swathed in lace
Her smell of dust, decay and old roses around the girls face
The old curled nails stroking her throat
As she robs the girl of speech, gloating
One sharp scratch you see it won’t hurt for long
And oh you will give such a pretty song
The smell is growing stronger, hypnotic and plodding
Slowly the girl offers her neck like a sacrifice
Speaking in tones soothing, trying to hide the ice
Not long my pretty and it will be over one sharp……
At the sound of the tinkling she awakes with a start
Fury boiling over from the old woman who now changed
From what appeared to be merciful to animal and deranged
The girl cannot look at the face she would die for
Looking down to the ground and backs towards the door
That she doesn’t remember having been here. .
And the tinkling she sees now was rising from her toes
Not a scream for the trance she’d been in stopped
Any human reaction even lamentation of her own woes
What saved her you ask?
Worn around her throat, so intent on her dark task
The crone could not see and undid her own work
As her fingers caught and she did jerk
Causing a whisper in reality as they called as they fell
Wake up, wake up, and run, for she is a guardian of hell
Come back it’s not your time to go from life
Run, run by the four winds that do blow
Faster, faster go now go.
As she opens the door the girl bends to thank
The necklace which saved her in her trance
Picks one bead before she takes flight
Puts hand to throat she notes the blood
But she survived it, that thing of the night
Like it never happened, well who would believe?
She tidies herself, pink mark at her throat
And wonders if tonight that crone will return to gloat.
©AilsaCawley Poetry 2015