In the market they are talking
about last week’s linens,
still strung across the garden
beneath skies dazzling blue.
The butcher’s wife does not like
the cats with their black cloaks,
stalking the briar patch at night,
bright eyes like guttering candles.
Her husbands claims superstition,
but distrusts the foxglove purple swords,
the nightshade, the mistletoe,
the cut stems by the hedgerow.
Forgets who birthed their last child,
almost blue and so brokenly quiet.
Breathed that first cry into him
when they though him too far gone.
But there’s the girl and her tears,
and her husband raging
for some sort of explanation
as to why the seed won’t take.
And why this year’s harvest failed,
and the Harlow’s pig got sick,
and the men from the church came
and hung a witch out.
I’m going to admit, this poem got away from me somewhat, and I’m really not sure how I feel about the ending. Still, I hope you like where I took tonight dVerse prompt. I only used a couple of the phrases we were given but like I said, the poem sort of got away from me.