Round about the caldron go;
in the poison’d entrails throw.
As if they cared tuppence what would
become of us. Those Weird Sisters.
Harsh Spinners. Maiden, mother, crone.
Witches, stirring at the bubble pot.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
in the caldron boil and bake.
He wrote to me, you see. That piece
out of my novel in the paper, the cat
in the next cell whose mother
looked up my address. All that.
Eye of newt, and toe of frog.
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog.
He asked me to come see him, and I came.
Lamb to the slaughter, peat to the flame.
It was, he told me later,
as though it had been planned.
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing.
I had never been inside a prison
in my life. He had barely been outside.
So it was up to me to take that giant
leap across the tracks.
For a charm of powerful trouble,
like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
One small step, the spaceman said.
The moon is cold.
The witches’ brew is hot.
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
then the charm is firm and good.