The Witchyman
My Poems

Down on the tube      A. Williams ‘09

Down the escalators into the bowels of the earth,

on the London Underground,

people rushing by, waiting on the platforms

as the roar of the tube is heard,

the wind in your face as it soars out of the tunnel,

all aboard, mind the gap,

off we go into the darkness,

along the winding labyrinth,

underneath the busy streets,

crowded carriages, nobody speaks,

they just sit and stare, read their

papers or look at their phones,

along with the stress and strain of the city,

but when the underground is closed

only the footsteps of the tunnel workers

breaks the silence, echoing around this eerie

subterranean world, in the silence of the night.

Andrew Williams

Night Journeys     A. Williams ‘08                                            

hot breath under hunters tongue

cold air of fear on foxes mane,

cold breeze under the moonlight gaze

dark shadows and screams of the hunted

creaking timbers that seem to groan

ghosts of the past standing alone

spirits of the netherworld

flitting beneath the leafy glades

guardians of ancient pathways awakening

in a world some never see

only a few will ever know

who open the door to outer and inner realms,

that share this sphere and the next

a glimpse to just a chosen few.


Andrew Williams



The Mole.                                         

 written by Andrew Williams. 16/7/10

There was a mole who lived in a hole

who dug up the local bowling green

which made the club members feel very mean

so he found pastures new at the nearby cricket pitch

and wound them up too.




Brocks Tale.  written by Andrew Williams. Sept 2013

Poor old Brock, gassed, trapped, shot and baited by dogs
scapegoated and persecuted by evil men who revel in their cruel strife
On the Isle of Man there are no badgers, but the disease is still rife
Bovine TB starts in cows no matter what the minister vows 
That magical and mysterious symbol of nature
so few see, but many do care
who forages in the moonlight rays
instead of the bright sunlit days
it may dig up a lawn
but look at what man has ripped up and torn
don't blame Brock for the decline in bees, hedgehogs and songbirds
look no further than some farmers backyards, the sprays, car wheels and thrashing blades
they call that progress
the cause of what makes wildlife even less.

The Third Battle of Newbury                                                

 A. Williams ‘09


what price the earth paid for the road,

now a great scar lies across the land,

desolation where once great trees stood

that reached to the sky

in all their majestic splendour

now only sad decaying stumps are left

wildlife habitats gone

the sweet birdsong replaced by the sound

of buzzing chainsaws, traffic and

fumes that came,

just to take two minutes off a car journey,

they call that progress,

what madness.


Andrew Williams