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I climbed to the top of Stoner Hill
To wash my head in the sky,
And passed a blackbird shaking its bill
As the two of them went by:
Young Georgie Fellows rushed down the path
As if he had seen the dead;
The constant companion stifled a laugh
And slowly turned her head.
Is it true what they say, on a misty day
She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?The quarry moistened its rubbery lip
And calmly awaited the final slip.
I went to the market early one day
For joy of the muttering crowd,And stood by the churchyard out of the way
Where the noise was not so loud;
But praising her wares in a genteel voice
Behind her makeshift stall,
The constant companion offered her choice
Dark cooking apples to all.
Is it true what they say, on a misty day
She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?Two old people bought her fruit,
Confusingly shaped like mandrake root.
I walked by the river to bask in the sun
And raise my hat to the girls;The craneflies danced like smoke from a gun
And the water plaited its curls:
But drifting down on the eddying tide
In a boat with a nameless rower,
The constant companion offered a ride
To a girl as fresh as a flower.
Is it true what they say, on a misty day
She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?And Jenny Mulholland in the best of cheer
Accepted the offer to row to the weir.
They put it down to the cold and the rains
And the curious mist from the ground;
But in sickrooms with plasters and cups of tea,
And a strangely woven shawl,
The constant companion devotedly
Gave close attention to all.
Is it true what they say, on a misty day
She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?And people smile at her, “How are we now?”
And her bony fingers soothing their brow.
In the depths of winter the clergyman
Shivered and said to his wife,“She seems half-saint, half-harridan,
And scares me out of my life.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” she giggled and said –
That day at Evensong
The constant companion lifted her head,
Stared steadily, and stared long.
Is it true what they say, on a misty day
She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?And over the year as weak as a wave,
The parson coughed his way to his grave.
In May when the glorious vernal weather
Made Stoner throw off its hood,Like a joyful dog released from its tether
I rushed and sniffed through the wood;
I danced in last year’s bracken before
I saw through the speckled gloom
The constant companion, dabbing a sore,
Advance from her forest room.
Is it true what they say, on a misty day
She glides like a phantom in search of her prey?I do not know for, frail as a breath,
I am fixed in the eternal study of death.
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© July 1980