An Idyll

By Mo Conlan

A certain Professor L’Orange

lived quite surrounded by bogs

and hillocks in western Wales 

studying flora, fauna, and snails.

He had no nearby kin nor wife,

truly a strange and solitary life.

His hair was chestnut, unruly,

but not unduly; his cheeks

rosy from weather, he was

stooped, not by age, but passion

to study each fern and feather.

L’Orange arose in his self-built hovel,

each morning, toting shovel,

magnifier, other digging tools

and bags for collecting toadstools,

to research this rugged, soggy land. 

At night, by firelight, in a fine hand

he recorded his treasures – 

rocks, slugs and herbs – his only pleasures.

Sometimes he spoke to his pet snail Jacko,

“What am I doing out here alone? Am I wacko?”

But he knew the answer, in dreams unfurled:

To find a new species to give to the world.

A new breed of rabbit, or ferret or owl,

he cared not its ilk, herb, fern or fowl,

to bear his name in books for all time

and prove to his family that he could shine.

They were people with normal pursuits,

wives, children, money and jobs wearing suits. 

They thought L’Orange embarrassingly strange

to live alone in weeping mists and rains.

 “We should commit him,” says his older brother,

a footballer of renown in younger years,

now a financier richer than his peers.

(Still, odd as he was, L’Orange was preferred by mother.)

One afternoon while out in the bog,

L’Orange spotted an unusually attractive frog.

He followed the little fellow as it hopped along,

until in the wood he heard a sweet song…

Across the stream he saw its source,

a red-haired lassie astride a white horse.

He was gobsmacked, startled, amazed. 

“Halloo” he shouted, and caught her gaze.

 “Halloo yourself, come across if you dare.”

Sweet as her song, she gave him a look.

And L’Orange plunged into the brook. 

 The stream ran cold and fast.

It tore from him jumper and vest,

his trousers, cap and all the rest.

 L’Orange, now a fish pale and bare. 

floundered in a watery snare.

 Quick as a snake the lass was in the water.

 “Give me your hand,” she cried.

A jolt of joy shook him as he complied.

 Lithe and agile as an otter, 

She fished him out of the water,

then his trousers and stuff 

as L’Orange stood shivering in the buff.

 “Wrap yourself in this,” she directed,

handing L’Orange her woolly red shawl. 

Fortunately, not being overly tall,

he was able to cover himself, well, nearly all.

She took her kerchief and mopped his face.

L’Orange’s heart was beating apace.

Up close, she told him, “My name is Willow.”

Her eyes were sunrise, her breast a soft pillow. 

 “You’re wet through and through, you ninny,” 

she scolded. “Get up on my horse Whinny.” 

L’Orange, no rider, witless and numb

took hold of the pommel and clung.

They came upon a green dell in the wood.

Out of shadow into sunshine – poof! –

there sat a small round house

with mushroom-shaped roof. 

Willow had him down off Whinny

in a wink of time, and before a fire,

his clothes on the line.

She sat opposite on the settle.

“Now, sir, what is your mettle?”

“Why do you skulk through our wood?

Mean you ill or good?”

His face grew red as he spoke, hands interlaced.

“I am a man of scientific pursuit, 

studying flora and fauna of this good place,

A man of no acclaim,

Professor L’Orange, by name.” 

Her expression softened. 

“I believe Granda’s old nightshirt will suit.

It is red and woolly and smells of peat,

but it will cover you, head to feet.”

L’Orange was feeling less dim and asked,

 “When not rescuing blokes from a ditch,

what is it you do here?” he inquired.

She replied, “Why, I am a witch.”

 Taken aback, L’Orange asked,

“Are you a witch for ill or good?”

Willow gave a tinkling laugh.

“Good, of course, and bad

enough when there is naught 

to be had but bad.”

L’Orange pondered.

“Could you turn me into a spotted frog?”

Willow answered. “Perhaps I could,

but, more to the point is would.

Do you wish to be a frog, Sir?”

L’Orange shrugged. “Just for a day.

It’s a species I admire, 

and hopping through the wood

would do my research good.”

“I, Sir, am in service

to Mother Nature

and, Sir, I do not think 

that frog  is your true nature.

So, no. And, now let us go.”

Willow pointed to the back room,

where, L’Orange assumed,

there was a bedstead

His face bloomed red.

He knew naught of this witch,

nor females of any venue.

Still, he followed her cue.

A ladder ascended from floor

to ceiling and beyond, to sky.

Willow climbed and beckoned him nigh.

Atop the roof, he was ensorcelled

into a scenery of lavish greenery,

moss and ferns and flowers,

a greenhouse fit for a queen. 

L’Orange plunked himself down to dream.

Willow rifled her picnic basket

and offered him an orange.

“I have waited well nigh too long,

for ye, Professor L’Orange.”

She plucked a succulent plant

of sunny hue from the rooftop bower. 

“This is a Borange,” she said,

“an herb of miraculous power.”

L’Orange took hold of the flower,

its star-shaped petals, feeling its power. 

“It can cure headache and heartache

 and more…,” said Willow.

L’Orange’s heart beat fast;

could this plant be, at last,

the holy grail he sought,

the discovery grand

to seal his name and brand?

Borange, found by L’Orange!

“We must let the world know

of new plants medicinal!”

 L’Orange cried.

“No,” declared Willow.

 “Do not be an imbecile.

These plants are secret

and sacred, most holy.

We tend them, render them

to heal people wholly.

“We cannot let this seed

fall into the maw of greed,

to men who would plunder

this treasure for money foul.

No. This, we cannot allow.” 

Willow took his hand.

L’Orange held tight to her hand.

He began to see an ambition more grand,

so much grander, hand in hand.

Later, in their wedding bed, Willow said, 

“I sent the frog to you. A jest.” 

L’Orange shook his head: “More like a test.”

Willow smiled: “More like a quest, I suggest!”