WINTRY BALLAD

A sorcerer came down the road

by a cold wintry snowstorm slowed

came to a gallows, grim with load.

A tri-beam bare frame, on it strung

three executed robbers swung.

He sat down. “Well met, hereabout.

Boys, you’ve a high life there, no doubt! –

but now do hurry down to me,

let’s spend tonight in company!”

He gestured, swore a magic curse,

hopp! and they’re down, all none the worse.

In a sinister ring they sat.

Their out-of-kilter heads back fitting,

their master celebrating, greeting.

The first, hound-like and black as jet,

shoulders, knees jutting, bone and skin,

age-matted growth upon his chin;

the second with hair wild atop,

with one peg leg to prop him up;

the third – the lord preserve us! – was

quite naked – with an icy stare,

his face with hoarfrost grey, but bare

his body set with icicles.

“I’ve resurrected you, live on,

more evil deeds to perpetrate,

yet, this day, serve me to atone.

Under the gallows shade, till late

let us enjoy some merriment

wine-drowned till drowsy, somnolent.

Go, rise, now bring me all we need,

one cushions, and the second, bread,

the third, wine – just a drop will do! –

Go, fly now forth, you magpie crew!”

Off, like a flock of birds they flew.

As soon as whooshed by frenzied flight

through the air the first one descended.

““I bring a pillow, cushion supple

from a poor widow, which I took

from underneath her sickly child;

short for us all, sure, to be candid –””

“That will be plenty for us, look!”

the master gives heart to his pupil;

his spell property redefining:

and lo, there’s fourfold soft reclining.

Above, a wistful breeze seems venting

denunciation, grief, lamenting.

And now the second has returned.

““I bring the wine, which I confess

I took from the church warden’s store,

it was to serve for tomorrow’s mass;

just that there’s not much to be had –””

“Don’t fret, there’s plenty, my good lad!”

The master chants. And in reply

wine casks around them multiply.

In the air, sounds disconsolate,

howling like cold grey wolves upset.

The third returned now, calls with glee:

““I bring altar-bread, happily!

I snatched it from a travelling priest,

hurrying to a near-deceased

to give him the last rites, no less!””

“Fine bread, when there’s no other, yes –”

A thunderclap. – What is afoot?

the earth quakes trembling underfoot,

the air is dense, with dust and soil

all spinning in a sudden broil,

everything as it stands and lies

torn, upward lifted, wild it flies,

and that foursome, in desperate hurry,

like flayed chaff, whirling in a flurry.

Then, one more plaintive sighing swell,

then silence, sudden silence fell.

A wintry silence. Breaking dawn,

a day-night blend insipid, fair,

over the road a tri-beam bare,

but for four fellows, hanging there.