Kim Mcadam | + Follow Poet |
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The Witch of Winslow Street

The Witch of Winslow Street

In West Saint John, no fortune sprang.
But greatness graced the Blue Rock Gang.
As Carleton rascals, David Goss
And Bobby Alexander launched
A secret goal that made them itch,
To see which woman was a witch.
So, mischief was their middle name,
And witches were their call to fame.

There was a place they used to play,
An old abandoned Chevrolet.
From trunk to back seat, they would steal
And plop behind the steering wheel.
Then, they’d pretend to leave the weeds
And squeal the tires at breakneck speeds.
But, always wary for a witch,
Sometimes they’d end up in a ditch.

It was their dream, to try and guess
Which harpy was a sorceress.
It was the toughest job in town,
No cackle, cape, or cone-shaped crown.
But just a weary, worn-out belle
Who squeezed out through the gates of hell,
Attired in a ragged robe,
And sent to their part of the globe.

There was a house on Winslow Street,
A place where witches came to meet,
Where vines grew right up to the stoop,
Amusement for the Blue Rock troupe.
They’d fall back in the bouncy bush
That sprung them back out on their tush.
And from an upstairs windowpane,
A witch was watching her domain.

One night the boys came home from Scouts,
And stopped to check their playground out. 
When suddenly they picked up Dave, 
Their trait to always misbehave.
They threw him way back in the plant.
Like tentacles, it grabbed his pants.
He couldn’t move! His legs were seized!
The witch was looking very pleased.

An incantation on her lips,
And bony fingers on her hips,
The conjuration barely sent
And David’s legs were like cement!
He tried and tried to free his feet
But vines had tied him up so neat.
His friends, too scared to help him out,
All they would do was point and shout:

“She’s on her way! Get out of there! 
She’s coming down the parlour stairs!”
With all his strength, Dave mobilized
Right there before the witch’s eyes.
He ran so fast he passed his chums.
His knees were sore. His feet were numb.
And overhead, beneath the moon,
The witch was riding on her broom.
                           ***

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Silent One Date: 5/31/2020 6:37:00 AM Brilliant poetry.. Login to Reply