The Crow

Reverend Spencer raised his glass,

and toasted Molly, good riddance.

With a flick of a coin,

he Settled his tab, with the congregation’s penance.

Tap, tap, tap

Came the sound from the window,

as the rain formed veins down the pane.

With a black beady eye and a flurry of feathers,

stood a crow who was very familiar.

‘I buried you with her!’

Yelled Spencer, as he lunged at the bird,

It disappeared before he could catch it.

‘Men grab your spades, we’re turning her grave,

and a stake through her heart ought to stop her!’

The crow watched from a branch

as they dug through the night

Until with a thud, hit the coffin.

They opened it up, but heavens above

when they peered inside, there was nothing.

They rode to her cottage deep in the forest

but what should they find on arrival?

The crow, he was there, perched on her chair,

as Molly continued to rock it.

‘I was never a mage, but belief is stronger than fiction.

A witch, I was not,

until I forgot,

not to be the person I wasn’t.

With a scream of despair, she revolved in the air.

The witch and the crow morphed together.

They flew out the door

As the men coward and swore,

All that floated to earth

was a feather.