The Changeling

(i)

 

I was born fully formed, wise before my time

The women observed me with pity; the men retained their distance

Perhaps it was my face – aged beyond my years

Perhaps it was my beard – a sign of a darker side

They dressed me in black christening robes

hid my crows-feet with a bonnet

They said I was a changeling – an imposter from

   below.

 

 

 

(ii)

 

My mother shed her tears, my father cursed his luck

They left me by the hearth for the soot to fill my mouth

They said their child was stolen - the one who was meant-to-be

They said I lived in shadow – slave to a tinker-king

My sister stroked my goggle eyes, counted her mourning beads

Danced a pagan jig in her own peculiar way

A merry grin brings only tears for one who is despised

I was a changeling, risen from a poisoned well to slake

   a sorry soul

 

 

 

(iii)

 

‘Why so scared of the hurdy-gurdy man ?’ I was harmless in my cot

A devil had not fallen just to sweep their lives away

Still they crept the stairs at night with bowls of broth to sup

Tepid pools of scrag-end soup - I spat it over the side

Ginger cake left far too long, sprouting fur and worms

Killer broth and killer cake that soaked my christening gown

My sister brought me garlic cloves to salve the night-time host

I was a changeling, and there was nowt to do but let me have

   my way

 

 

 

(iv)

 

They whispered in the kitchen, they plotted in the yard:

‘What shall we do with the changeling ?’ ‘Drown him in the bath!’

‘Where shall we send the changeling ?’ ‘Expose him on a hill!’

The women cried: ‘God save us all, our one true child has gone!

A soul must soon be bartered for our flesh and bones’ return.’

They tethered me in my rusty pram – I watched the clouds pass by

Threatened with a neck-cut so as to put it all to rights

There was none though who would do it – would take a fateful chance

To make the changeling whelp and gurgle and sing his farewell

   song

 

 

 

(v)

 

I will not cry, I will not dance, I will not act a part

I will not sink the soul I keep to trim a small town’s fear -

A town that strips a tragedy for one and all to see

And says: Here lies the shape of ague to curse and chill the wind.

So, take my life - my changeling life - it’ll cost your families dear

Shrivel and cold, your children’s mouths will speak the nonsense rhyme

As I lie in torn christening robes and expose my horn of guilt

A changeling is a bitter type – empty as a begger’s

   tin

 

 

 

(vi)

 

Who has the courage or slant of mind to hold me in their arms ?

To feed my bones so they grow strong, and fill my lonely heart ?

And raise the ignorant from the dark to end their rheumy dreams

That all in nature is clean and fair – the paradise you seek;

A stern hand is a weak hand when it seeks to hide the truth

A slit trench runs not clean and pure but dark and copper red

So remember me in years to come - before this day is through

A changeling might draw down a seed; that changeling might

   be you