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The Gypsy Witch
A Poem About Having the Courage to Be Different
You can find her in the forest, in the meadow where bluebells bloom in spring and yarrow in the summer
Sometimes, she is alone
Other times, her children — three bright sparks — will dance around her like planets orbiting the sun
And sometimes, especially at twilight, it will just be The Gypsy Witch and her familiars
Not quite unicorns, but something akin
With alabaster coats
Hooves like saucepan lids
Manic manes of spun silver
And a whinny you can hear for miles if you really listen
And always, there is the donkey, who never strays far, and who might just be the favourite of the Gypsy Witch
The Gypsy Witch stays up late
Stitching, buttoning, building and stuffing
Making creatures of the night
And other-worldly beings
Toys for some, and tools for others (especially the witches of the woods)
In summer, she and the donkey will walk to the village, and the townsfolk will cross the street, careful to avert their eyes, for no good can come from staring at a witch…
