May we be forgiven our
misgivings about witches
even now, here, where they used
to bump downhill in barrels.
Spiked barrels. Nasty business.

That their resentful spirits,
perturbed by such rough treatment,
should gather in this corner,
wishing ill to passers-by,
is - I can't say plausible,

but has at least the logic
of a story or a dream.
Peace be to them. Requiem
, little witches.
You might be my giddy aunts.

David Callin

If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Callin  would be pleased to hear them.