The Witch of the West

The broom is swept. The besom kept
behind the door onto the cliff
where perched, as if by accident,
her house peeks on the valley floor.

Still young when she moved here.
A little place beyond the Edge
where wagon roads lead high above
old Gloucester town to Gladys,
the good witch of the west.

She can’t abide a serpent’s fang –
white venomous – and she is kind
won’t brew a potion for revenge
or curse a boy with MEASLES.

The honey bee’s her creepy crawly
her cat is Mitz, with one blue toe
who heaves to Gladys in the night
unless there’s somewhere else to go.

The witches spells for upset tummies
might include more greens, more cabbage,
rice or chicken at a pinch:
Gladys likes a slice of cake,
knows all foods’ small constituents.

And she is friendly. Sometimes quiet,
sometimes laughing and, like you do,
sometimes singing in the kitchen.
Old men spare her a thought or two,
they take a shine to Gladys.