Who Put Luebella Down the Wych Elm
"Who Put Luebella down the Wych Elm?"
There are rumours
about me, some
come seeking me
with their geiger counters
and ouji boards
with their heart
shaped planchettes
unanswered questions
in the woods, crackling
within the sounds of leaves
invisible dead things speaking
underfoot white noise
boxes that ghosts
are meant to genuinely
speak through
radio signals
code
for decoding
intrepid other spectrals
that touch the soil
let it slip
through their fingers,
like time;
they say, they can sense me,
feel me still, through that
mere touch
they listen
but do not
speak to me
as such;
what was once,
all now seems
forgotten and lost;
there are rumours
about me, they say
I was found
in the hollow
of dead life,
for a short
spell
in the middle of
the woods, the
wych elm and
all that, they say
I am a witch
but that’s present tense,
the past would make it
"was", but just because
the whispers suggest,
a hand of glory
separated and lit,
doesn't mean,
it was; if they could
just piece the story
correctly,
bit by insane bit;
then others, say, that
I used these slender bones
once covered in flesh
with the urgent pressing
of fingertips, to transmit
more singular
compelling signals;
some say, I passed
once upon a life
for intelligence,
I adroitly consider
perhaps they have
their wires crossed,
I now think intelligence
is in the eyes and beaks
of birds, hair taken for
weaving nests, skin
carrion fed for hungry
creatures all wanting
to be fed, there was
plenty of me, once,
I was a plentiful feast;
they say, you know,
I arrived obscure,
undercover
of darkness, covertly
urgent, very important
special missions,
regrettably terribly
unfruitful
I was set
from the get-go
to be seen unseen
to be
quiet and
quite
unremarkable,
no records of me
to be found,
not even in the
top secret
jerry can
records,
I was considered
naive
I never existed
you see,
missing passport
birth certificate
medical records
the history of teeth
no loose lips here
then,
all the intrigue
perhaps, they say
the parachute business?
same deal,
different kind of witches,
some say experienced,
some say over-adventurous,
untrained novices
landing within
enemy lines,
always.
I got
all tangled up
in the trees
and landed
down the
$hit shute
just like that;
perhaps,
some suggest
I was 'just a'
passing loose
thread
between two men
at the local tavern, there are
so many different types ...
of witchy women,
all branded
for the slow burn
blacksheep and
scapegoats
escaping something
all on their own
very special
mysterious missions;
they say, perhaps
this witch
drank too much
and the special mission
came to a halting crunch
strangled in the back of
a serially offensive
humber super snipe
crepe soled shoes
dancing in thin air,
the warm tight hands
of a slick lizard squeezing
some foreign kind of love
life rationed out of
the useless vessel like toothpaste
from a disposable body
mistakenly overcompensated
covered in cheap perfume
a soulless kiss
no je t’adore
perhaps a blessing,
last thoughts
from the dark smokey pall,
"no street walking
anymore"
and before
rigour mortis
set in, these resourceful
how should we put it,
gentlemen? encased me
possibly still breathing
within the dead limbs
of the wych
like a
sleeping baby,
to teach me a lesson
upon waking,
never to take that
trip again;
nevertheless,
whichever way
you looked at it
I was trapped
alive, or dead
on the money, they say,
all's fair in love and war;
there like an unwrapped
mummy, I dreamt
of a child once embraced,
now lost like a paradox
tightly overprotected
by the limbs
of a deadly
wych elm tree
kind of poetic,
wouldn’t you say?
there is no going back
to before what was,
past tense.
present tense,
I am now somewhere
hidden and undiscovered
in a dusty box
of unclaimed bric-a-brac,
an unsolved mystery;
of course, such a great
to-do for a while,
messages written on
stone walls, investigators
all perplexed, vacinity of
crime and all that…
my remains
were gathered
and photographed
by starched coats
and soft shoes
witnessing
the hand detached
at a distance
from the ghoulish body
no tap dancing fingers
no piano playing scores
no turning keys
no touching faces
physically opening
doors, throwing
panting dogs
balls
perhaps some fox or rat
perhaps for a gypsy thief
my digits and palm
stewed slowly with
eery incantations
a waxy token
like a candle lit
all for the hand of glory
the cards were dealt
an eye for an eye
war zones of some sort
behind enemy lines
in one way or another
I was despatched.
some curious cats
still seeking the full story.
they say,
the piece of peach
petticoat found in my throat,
was torn by a boy
who poaching for eggs,
reaching into the
sharp brambles of the thing,
quite shockingly found
my macabre skeletal head
then, not wanting
to be found
to be on the
wrong side, of the fence,
that would be
the lordly
overseer’s grounds,
took about tearing
part of my frock
and on sturdy twig stick,
afixed the shred and
poking it into my
bony, yet thankfully
voiceless throat,
gingerly wedged
me ("the ghastly thing")
back into the womb
of the wych
the creatures and
the whispering
foliaged limbs
of the forest
all know
by now,
the true story
unlike humans,
they see me
come and go,
sometimes
being familiar
with the other,
we speak of that time
long ago and
mercilessly laugh
over it all
I am with them all now
shapeshifting through
portals, there’s no
coming back
to the once was,
I am close to
elemental
tied to darker realms
the ones who took me
down, well,
their days are spent
in a kind of
swinging door hell
I’m with them always
now, like the woman in black
they're in my hell
haunting
limitless dimensions
leading them through
strange labyrinths
a shadow
of my former self
the mystery unsolved
the story still waits
like an unclaimed
dance without a card
sitting on a shelf
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Copyright © Lady Labyrinth | Year Posted 2023
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