Pot Macabre

“Press out an opiate juice From berries culled in prick of June-time heat; Pound nettles in a cruse Of crimson sard till mixing is complete; And strain the brew through bags of sarcenet, Mumbling the runes that crazed Sir Dagonet.” So spoke the slobbering witch, Wagging her shaky head incessantly; Then, with an agile twitch Stove oddly crackling through the briery. I caught the swish of her broomstick up to the moon, And her tattered skirt afloat like a black balloon. Old Witch, whither art gone? Hopped off to the well like Chick-o’-my-Craney-Crow? Here’s work for thy dudgeon, A brew and a bake for a devilish calico! What’s but a kettle ready for mad ferment, Black mouth a-grin at me, the innocent! I pressed and pounded duly, And sat to watch the slop at bubble slow; Fed coals with knots unruly Of thornbush boles till pot-legs stood aglow. And thrice the pot gave forth a piggish grunt, And thrice a bellowing as of hounds on hunt. A great red swine sprang out, With bristling gleams as bright as Freyr’s boar; Then, at his grubbing snout, Two black dogs leaped, two white-fanged lusts for gore. They three made hideous noise through brush and dew— Trembling I stooped and strained the mulling brew. And there was born a girl Within a sudden mist wizardry, And came some faint pipes’ thirl, While she danced, with lips turned sly, and beckoned me, And we danced mad till night’s low-burning wick Snuffed out, hearing like us the Old Hag’s stick.