So, she was a witch.
She could switch jobs, couldn’t she?
But, oh, such prejudice, such persecution.
All she’d ever done was exceed in her role;
Give out required medication
From willow, ash and roe.
Never enough, it was never enough.
She could take to her broom,
Fly-high the night sky,
But still, the ceiling was down on earth,
In the minds of the
Establishment.
THEY could conjure
A witch’s brew of pitiful,
Fake excuses
To keep her in her place.
‘No experience. Un-qualified.
‘Doesn’t get on with people;
‘Never trusted, vilified,
‘Should be burned at the stake,’
Etcetera and so on.
The magic of her charms failed
To swing them around.
And she was never one
To wear short skirts;
To smile and flirt,
To dish the dirt.
No crystal ball
Would ever show her
At the ball, dancing
With the bigwigs,
The fat cats,
Not even her own familiar,
A snowy owl named Elvis,
Who couldn’t give a hoot
For the quickstep.
So she learned a dance of her own,
Flew high in the night sky
Where there were
No limits.
Howard Benn