THE MILL POND
The Old Mill at the bend,
Where, every now and then,
The Mill pond is called back
By the water pouring itself
Into a great flood,
Covering the old road,
Filling the sunken garden,
Drowning the lanes
In witch soaked water,
So that no-one can come or go.
No-one disturb the ghosts
Of all the women drowned
We don’t want them
Floating on top of the water.
Their dying eyes remembering,
Their mouths wide open with curses
To fall on those murdering men.
Want those words laid upon them swept away.
Want the drenching fear of the dark spells lifted.
The women drowned all over again.
They should be so lucky.
The one with hair red as sunset,
White boned with wispy fingers,
Red heart bright with living fire,
Who has waited out the centuries
To claim her righteous vengeance,
Will take back every last curl
Torn from her dying head by jealous women,
Working hand in hand with murderous men.
Take heed, then.
Killers take care.
Remember the wronged dead,
Still lying amongst the dark weeds,
Still floating and drifting
Down and along the old Mill pond.
They do not forget
But wait by the Mill at the bend.
Their dead tongues clacking,
Their heavy shadows bending life and death
To their implacable will.
©2020 Gwen Grant