Dripping with Curiosity

The door you can never enter,
intricate patterns carved into the door.
A child should be seen and not heard,
so you dared never enter the wooden door.

Older, you arrive at the house from long ago;
no longer a child, yet you have the heart of a child.

No longer afraid, you are dripping with curiosity.
To hell with it, you whisper,
then turn the handle and walk into the room.

Your Grandmother sits at her desk,
within a room of dreams and magic,
‘I wondered when you would join me.’

You smile and take the stars within your hands;
now you are ready for your mother’s secrets.

‘You have always been a witch, and now it is time to become one. Welcome to the heart of our coven, my beautiful Granddaughter.
I wish your mother could see this day, yet you know she still lingers.’

The Raven

No one visits,
no visitors visit
her home.

More witch than woman,
they say
something like that.

Living alone stirs rumours,
tales become more,
soon blood may flow.

A beauty, despite the time.
She refuses to brush her hair,
many curls, a bird appears.

Black eyes know the
way to and from this
world to the next.

The chimney sends smoke
puffing thick, into the
atmosphere.

Careful, the leaves
no trace of who
she once was.

Only what is needed,
she takes from her home,
the place loved so well.

Moving on, she sets her
home alight, so no one
will find what she felt.

Hearing a burning place.
The moor is hidden,
not a living soul around.

Gone before the judgement
police come knocking,
and kill her with stones.