She stood in front of the mirror, staring
Combing her long dark hair,
A black cat jumped on her shoulder, purring
The Witch of Aberdare.
She took in the curve of her fulsome lips
And the dimple in each cheek,
‘Why can’t I find a lover for me?’
But the mirror didn’t speak.

She’d watched the girls from the village, keeping
Trysts with the ones they loved,
As hand in hand they kissed on meeting
Down in the darkening wood.
But nobody sought out Alison Gross
Where she stood by the wishing well,
Dropping her pennies in hopes that any
Would lure a man to her spell.

Her mother, Isabel Ingpen once
Had been ***** by Jonathon Dread,
But then had spelled by the wishing well,
Put him in a garden bed.
She’d witched him into a barren seed
But the evil in him came through,
Sprouted there as a deadly nightshade,
Tall, and blocking the view.

She told her Alison, on her honour
Her father had come and gone,
‘But better avoid the Belladonna
You don’t know where it’s from.’
She taught her all of the witchcraft rules
Of philtres, potions and spells,
‘But try to avoid the world of fools,
And men, who fancy themselves!’

But Alison had a disposition
For loving, though no-one saw,
The teacher who gave her impositions,
The boy who stood by the door,
The Baker’s lad and the Butcher’s boy
And the gardener, mowing the green,
But nothing would turn their heads her way
She was Alison Gross, unseen.

She sighed and cried as she cast her spells,
She wept as they sauntered by,
So deep in love with one another
And gazing up at the sky,
But Halloween was a day away
And Alison formed a plan,
‘I’ll weave my spells out in the heather,
I’m going to get me a man!’

The children were out, were trick and treating
As Alison took her broom,
She flew to the local witches meeting
At Heatherdale, under the Moon,
She looked at the other witches there,
So old, so sad and alone,
She swore before she was old as they
She wouldn’t be left a crone.

She slipped away and she left the coven
Then stripped off her hat and cloak,
She lifted the cauldron off the oven
Went down to the giant oak,
The young were dancing and dunking apples
She wandered into the throng,
And a young man said with his laughing eyes,
‘This is where you belong.’

He danced her under the Hunter’s Moon,
And he stole the witch’s heart,
She knew, without a potion or philtre
They’d never be far apart.
She holds a baby high on her hip
As she combs her curling hair,
And her lover stays, to trade her kisses
The Witch of Aberdare.

David Lewis Paget