Whispering Witches Fly
Whichy March, witchy spring,
Pondering the grandmother’s estate?
Spring is near, then summer’s here.
The want of money will not wait.
Careful on the first floor landing.
To own the painting was an understanding.
Keeping silent this silent trust?
Or is it only the cash you lust?
Calling up a fine arts man
Who steps exactly to where you stand.
In her old kitchen a sincere truth.
Pretending that is of no use.
Reaching deal an exchange is made.
While lifted from the landing wall
The painting pleads for a savior’s aid,
And no one there can hear its call?
Careful now; the money’s spent
On a summer month of luxurious rent.
You lie awake in a whichy March
But this year there can be no witchy spring?
A voice comes from the first floor landing
“I thought we had an understanding.”
My painting, Dear, I always said,
Is a silent trust to which we are wed.”
“But I find an empty wall right there.
Suggesting that you did not care
Or bother with our family’s role
Of sacrifices to a higher goal.
“I am wondering now as I stand here
Unafraid of my hysteric leer?
Have you become the black one’s kettle?
Cooking up our family’s mettle?
“My hand can feel the empty space
where my painting hung with stoic grace
Above my footsteps on the first floor landing
That, I believe, was our understanding.
“As black as the Devil’s blackest dye
And as the whispering witches fly
They know we had an understanding
About my painting on the first floor landing”.
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