The Witch of Silsden

she will pay her due
before St Matthew’s
by the power of St Michael
she will make her way away
these torches are for
the celebration of the dead—
this day in December,
she was thrown,
with witch’s hat, witch’s wand
witch’s wicked book of lies
down the deep shaft of the mine.
when morning came
we searched in earnest
found nothing—
no book, no broom, nobody
now the canary sees
and hears
and senses things we only see in dreams
speak of in the silent halls at school
that vile and unbridled witch of Silsden spooks the horses
drowns the fishes
sours the milk
drives the men to drink
and makes our winters worse
by year
by year.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio




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