The witch of Satis

This poem was clearly inspired by Charles' Dickens wonderful creation of Miss Havisham. I am posting it now because the perfect illustration for it just appeared in my kitchen…

The witch of Satis

She dwells, yes, that is the word,

down there in the dust of her life,

not living, she dwells

in the wintry room of her making,

in her bloodless bitterness,

where no clock ticks,

time is still,

the air forever frozen,

her breath a cool vapour that has only

caressed the ash of life.

Her dress yellowed, its silk long dead,

her face a waxwork, eyes inward,

her body withered under the gown,

a shrunken spectre;

her movements small

and cold.

The young man sees

in the dusky candlelight

the detail of her,

but I feel it all,

from my haunt.

I live well in near darkness

and my silk is finely tuned

to the smallest vibration

of my webs.

There is abundance still on her bride’s table,

a great cake,

it is for me,

my blotchy body and speckled legs

are all at home here.