Curse Of The Burning Witch Poem by David McLansky

I searched the headstones for my Mary
Who Death decided to take so early;
When I chanced upon
A bush of thorns
Sharp pricker spikes
Two inches long;
Within the thicket
The tangled web
Stood a stone
Of unnamed dead
I asked the keeper
Who kept the grounds
Why he did not cut
The thicket down;
He eyed me with a mocking leer,
His lips betrayed a sense of fear;
He whispered low, a throaty sound
He hung his head while looking round.
'I've tried to cut the brambles down,
I've hewed the branches near the ground
I broke three blades of my saw,
I clipped the needles that stabbed and tore
My shirt and flesh, my dungerees,
As I bent low, squatting on my knees.
But as I labored to cut and trim
It sprouted spikes, I couldn't win;
And then I espied what was writ
As I bent low and strained to twist,
The epitaph carved in stone;
I read it with a silent moan;
Here lies the body of a witch
Hung and burnt,
In bubbling pitch,
She cursed us as the flames grew higher
Writhing in the burning fire;
Her charred bones are buried here,
In a leaded coffin bier,
These briars encase her
Burnt remains,
Yet she seeks a mortal frame;
Do not cut these prickly vines
Which snake about her tomb and climb;
Do not trim or deracinate
These tangled briars that seal her fate;
This bitter wood entombs her will
Which still seeks vengeance
And always will.