In greedy flames that licked the rain and sky
for verdicts of another night, when dreams
repeated pasts when mother’s asking why
she’s sentenced and why the preacher screamed
of witchcraft, asking what her daughters knew.
When mother combed their hair, her gentle stream
of tears that told them where the raven flew
it told them what a wolfsbane potion cures
it told them where the strongest foxglove grew
They nodded and then said: “we will endure”
so the smoke of mother could inculcate,
revenge for an injustice thus ensured.
For many years the sisters hid their hate
behind a veil of piety the oldest came
into the preacher’s bedroom as a bait,
With fingers fumbling, mumbling words of shame
she fed him wine and filled his throat with lye
and as he died they watched him burn in pain.
A long time since I joined the Visdare prompt. I thought the picture alluring, and thought I would write a terza rima on revenge.
May 1, 2015