Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                    T­he Pale Lady of the Well

I am mostly English, which is now uncool
And my soupcon of West African genes
Along with a whiff of Russia and First Nations
Protest Northumbria and East Anglia

But when outside at dusk with poetry and pipe
And a whisper of single-malt offered to the earth
Sometimes I seem to see visions proper to a Celt
And hear soft songs from the dawn of time

How is it that an Englishman can still
Sense the White Lady near the well at dusk

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
you can find him out at night!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
when the stars are full and bright!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
see the snow out on the ground?

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
dancing in the snowflakes' falling sound?

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
The leaves they are attractive, they shimmer in the night...

...like the snowfall, so distractive, a twisting shiny sickness is a tasty sight,
though the berries not delicious their taste is only acrid, and hiding a secret acid, yet pungent, smelling right?

The bush's thorns they punish those who root among the branches while the sprite he dances in-between the flashes of pain and belly aches the acid courses through one’s veins and the evil sprite it smiles knowing well where its source of nutrient for the winter has died and felled!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf, of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush; but only at night…