Stepping off the beaten track,
we stumble on a twisting way,
that reaches up towards the sky,
betwixt the ancient buildings grey.

There, sitting in a doorway hunched,
a crone of many years gone by,
surrounded by her varied wares
to sell to tourists that catch her eye.

Come see my trinkets, dear, she cried,
don’t walk on by, come look and see,
I’ve perched here 30 years have I,
sat underneath this twisted tree.

I hesitate but for a moment,
but even that was far too long,
she caught me with a gnarly hand,
her bony grip surprisingly strong.

Pray tell me, pretty one, your name,
bend close and whisper in my ear,
I will not bite, my pretty one,
there’s nothing here for you to fear…

And so I found myself lean to
against an inner shrill alarm,
and muttered quietly my name,
as claws crawled up along my arms.

No sooner had the words slipped out
had she lept up and with a laugh
called out my dear I’m free at last
and cackling ran back down the path.

I found myself turn strangely weak,
and trembling fall down to my knees,
where catching sight of my young hands,
a ice cold fear my heart did freeze.

My fair young hands had wrinkled over,
my long blond hair had turned to grey,
my once lithe legs were now immobile,
my back had hunched within a day.

I tried to move but found I couldn’t,
my limbs were rooted to the spot
a curse, once hers, had passed to me
her lonely trade became my lot.

So if you find yourself walking
along the streets of Marmaris,
take care, my pretty one, take care,
of ancient crones with a whispered kiss.

Walking through Marmaris Old Town yesterday, we did indeed stumble upon an old woman selling bits and pieces from her doorstep. Kate got caught by her sand she was very insistent! We eventually managed to escape worth no purchases of unwanted gifts made. This poem quickly emerged as a story that had to be told.
(07.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025