Monday, May 24, 2010

Witch-Burning


Witch-Burning

They burned a witch in Bingham Square
     Last Friday afternoon.
The faggot-smoke was blacker than
     The shadows on the moon;
The licking flames were strangely green
     Like fox-fire on the fen ...
And she who cursed the godly folk
     Will never curse again.
 
They burned a witch in Bingham Square
     Before the village gate.
A huswife raised a skinny hand
     To damn her, tense with hate.
A huckster threw a jagged stone—
     Her pallid cheek ran red ...
But there was something scornful in
     The way she held her head.
 
They burned a witch in Bingham Square;
     Her eyes were terror-wild.
She was a slight, a comely maid,
     No taller than a child.
They bound her fast against the stake
     And laughed to see her fear ...
Her red lips muttered secret words
     That no one dared to hear.
 
They burned a witch in Bingham Square—
     But ere she swooned with pain
And ere her bones were sodden ash
     Beneath the sudden rain,
She set her mark upon that throng ...
     For time can not erase
The echo of her anguished cries,
     The memory of her face.

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