by Doreen Hopwood

They said she was a witch,
laughing and pointing
as she stood without a stitch
of clothing,
flinching as they made their lewd
and shameful search
for so called evidence of witch-hood.

And her mother wept.

They said she was a witch,
jealous mouths lying,
swearing under oath that
they had seen her flying
through the air with her familiar, the cat.
They even said, with a sigh,
that the smell of brimstone
had filled the sky.

And Jesus wept.

They said she was a witch,
such beauty wasn't Heaven sent,
said she'd hitched
her skirts for the Devil, went
to Hell and back, some even swore
they saw her in the dead of night,
dancing in the oak grove
silver skinned in the starry light.

And the angels wept.

They said she was a witch
as they led her to the stake.
Wasn't this what the bitch
deserved? She couldn't take
their men now, and tempt
their minds with lust,
drive them wild with desire,
reminding them that they are just
mere mortals. Like her...

And still the Goddess weeps.

©17th November 1999, Doreen Hopwood