Yew Tree Lodge

YEW TREE LODGE - Story poem When I was young we had a local witch, or so they said. Meg Reid at Yew Tree Lodge. That’s the legend we were fed The lodge was dark and forbidding, away from the street light’s glare. Surrounded by gnarled old yew trees, weirdly shaped and bare. They’d been there for two hundred years, tree experts all agreed. And, if you believed the stories, they’d been planted by Meg Reid. She dressed in black from head-to-toe, the way that witches do, And, just to complete the picture, her cat was jet black too They said she had a cauldron, like the witches in Macbeth. And, if you took a sip from it, you’d suffer a painful death. Children were warned to keep away. Their parents would explain That if they ventured in there, they’d never be seen again. She’d boil them in her cauldron, then cut off all the fat, Chop them into pieces and feed them to her cat But I didn’t take any notice, in spite of the stories I’d heard. Whatever the other children said, I didn’t believe a word I went to see her twice a week, welcomed with open arms. I didn’t end up in her cauldron or come to any harm She didn’t have a magic wand or wear a pointed hat. She didn’t cackle when she laughed or anything like that. She didn’t ride a broomstick. That was not the way to define her. If she had to get from A to B, she drove a Morris Minor Her ‘cauldron’ was a stew pot, not containing witch’s brew But full of her delicious Beef and dumpling stew. We played Ludo and Monopoly, and card games by the score. If I won she gave me ice cream; if I lost she gave me more. I asked her why she wore black and never something gay. She said she’d thrown her gay clothes out when her loved one passed away. No, Meg Reid was not a witch; just grieving for her man. Oh, and I forgot to say that Meg Reid was my Nan