Say me, wight in the brom;
Teche me how I shul don,
That min hosbonde
Me lovien wolde.

Hold thine tunge stille
And have all thine wille.

(Old Verse)

* * *

Ancient wight within the broom,
Thing of meadow-straw and wood;
In darkest corner of the room;
Art thou an evil thing or good?

Tell me true, for I would know,
Tell me, please, thou ancient wight,
Art thou really friend or foe?
Art thou a creature of the night?

The wives in secret come to thee,
In secret from the village priest,
Believing thou hast wisdom s key,
Answers they believe thou see st.

Art thou trapped within the straw,
Or art thou free to come without?
Are thou restricted by some law
Modern man knows naught about?

The cat, who surely knows her spirits,
Will sometimes hiss and arch her back;
Do you breathe and she can hear it,
Passing thy kitchen for her nap?

Uttered a deep and hollow voice,
Ignorant, disrespectful mortal,
Come never again into this room –
Begone!   I vow, I had no choice;
Nevermore crossing kitchen portal,
Nevermore questioning a broom!

Copyright (C) 2007 by John Bliven Morin

This entry was posted on Saturday, April 24th, 2010 at 2:41 am and is filed under Goblin Poems, John Bliven Morin, Spiritual. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.