On a hillop near Winchester.

[Gyppo]

Colm mentioned the word 'skyclad' and it triggered a memory from twenty plus years ago.  I spent an hour looking for the poem I wrote at the time but to no avail.  So I cast my mind back, relived the event, and wrote it again. 

Gyppo

=====

On a hilltop near Winchester

One midsummer's Eve,
I wandered away from the hill top fire
and sat on a fallen log.
Peaceful amongst the shadows,
away from the flickering firelight,
at one with Nature.
Away from the stoner neo-pagans
talking bullshit in slow voices.

I watched a skinny little Witch,
in a silver dress,
setting up camp nearby.
Unpacking her bedroll, 
marking the four corners. 
Gesturing with her althame
with slow ceremony.
Casting a set of runes,
fractionally realigning her sleeping mat,
and then making a drink
with a small gas ring.

She knew I was there, 
but it didn't bother her,
after the initial start of recognition.
Two solitaries on the periphery,
respecting each other's space.
Treading lightly in a place of power.

But in the greater darkness of the trees, 
beyond the perimeter of myself,
and the little silver Wiccan,
there floated a pale shape.

A sky-clad blonde, short and curvy, 
with a small harp.
Moving to her own slow rhythm,
different from the drums around the campfire.
Bare feet soundless on soft leaf mould
below the ancient Chestnut trees.

Her hair caught the odd far rays of firelight,
her head and her little blonde bush
winking in and out of the darkness.

Periodically she stopped,
strumming a single deep note
then walked on
treading her larger circle.

I watched, captivated by the night,
until she turned onto the path where I sat.

I saw the silver Witch,
now reclining on her mat,
watching the inevitable.

The blonde harp girl,
lost in her own world, 
walked straight up to me, 
oblivious to my presence,
and turned as if to sit on my lap.

I spoke quietly,
and with just a slight start
she changed direction and sat alongside.
This was no vision,
but a real naked wench,
scented with sweat, patchouli, 
and woodsmoke.

She sat for a while,
next to the man in black,
strummed the single note,
then rose with a fluid grace, 
smiled as she stepped over the log
and moved on into the darkness again.

The little silver witch smiled,
rolled onto her other side,
drew up her knees,
pillowed her head on her hands
and settled down to sleep. 

A week later, in our local library,
I saw a curvy little blonde, 
shelving books,
moving with that same silent glide.

I asked her if she played the harp.

She smiled, and said no,
said she wasn't musical at all.

But she never asked why,
and I will always wonder.

Gyppo 

[indar]

She smiled, and said no,
said she wasn't musical at all.

But she never asked why,
and I will always wonder.

Life's mysteries--intriguing situation Gyppo . Fun to speculate about it.

[Colm Roe]

I do remember reading this (or one very similar to it) before Gyppo. You certainly are a bit of a seanchaí the way you draw the reader in in such an engaging way. Loved it.

[lshmael]

An enjoyable read Gyppo. I think "stoner neo-pagans" is quite funny. I read it as a nice slice of life poem, although it is a little bit too close to a short story in my opinion.

[Gyppo]

I do remember reading this (or one very similar to it) before Gyppo. You certainly are a bit of a seanchaí the way you draw the reader in in such an engaging way. Loved it.

You've got me in one, Colm

[Gyppo]

An enjoyable read Gyppo. I think "stoner neo-pagans" is quite funny. I read it as a nice slice of life poem, although it is a little bit too close to a short story in my opinion.

It could have gone either way.

As for the stoner neo-pagans...  I guess my personal bias is showing.  My Mum, an old school 'hedgewitch', a solitary practitioner, was always gently scathing of the modern witches who perform their rituals in the comfort of centrally heated houses with fitted carpets.  She called them the 'shag-pile pagans'

At least the ones on the hill were outdoors and the nature spirits were smiling upon them that night.

Oddly enough the little Silver Witch, with her bedroll and short dress which belonged more in a disco, is the clearest memory.  Like all storytellers I have certain key images which unlock particular memories for retelling when the audience is right.  She is the first thought for unbundling that tale, then I rummage back and forth, spreading my wares like some nomadic salesman, before arranging it into a coherent narrative thread.

This all sounds a bit mechanical, even cold-blooded, but it happens quite instinctively.  And while the lips are moving or the fingers are pattering over the keys, the rest is sorting itself in the background.

I recently attended a performance by a Jewish storyteller, who switched effortlessly between tales, and talking afterwards she said she has a mental matrix filled with images. 

"So that's what you were doing each time you reached forwards and seemed to pluck something from the air and study it for a second?"

"Yes.  It makes it easier.  It's the way the older ones passed the tales down to us."

It seems I do something similar, without formal teaching.

Gyppo

[Tracy Mitchell]

Another wonderful story Gyppo.  Sorry I missed it until now.

T