++ Crossroads Poem by Irene C S ClarkHogg

Crossroads

Like a murder of crows, the old crones sat in silence,
Hunched, shrouded figures, for the hour was nigh
When the tumbrel would come to this lonely crossroads;
Where the only witness was the moon up on high.


As midnight approached, wooden wheels could be heard,
Rumbling and groaning on the rough, rutted track.
The hanging was swift then, the hangman was paid.
He drove off in his cart, and never looked back.


How many innocents had the witch-finder slain?
How many mothers, from the villages gone;
Burned or hung high, knowing nothing of witchcraft?
But the sisterhood knew vengeance:
Now justice had been done.