The Witch's Grave

In a little town Down a lonely back road There sits a small cemetery From outside the gates It seems nothing special Just an ordinary graveyard Some tombstones recently placed Sturdy with their glossy sheen and Deeply carved lettering Others just thin slabs Of gray slate Writing barely legible And seeming as if the waft of A slight breeze could topple Them at anytime In the center of this small Country graveyard Rise two tall pines Spaced a few feet apart and Enclosed by overgrown bushes But herein is where its Secret treasure lies Through all the bramble and Between these two pine trees Unbeknownst to so many Rests 'The Witch's Grave' Her headstone is one of those Very thin slabs of gray Inscribed with a lengthy epitaph Which unfortunately can No longer be read A few feet away Facing the headstone Sits a smaller tombstone This I've learned is what was Once known as the footstone An old custom done away with Many years ago The tale has it that this is The final resting place of The only woman to ever be accused of Being a practicing witch in This small country town As I stand in this dense thicket Hidden from view to all I ponder upon the life of This lost soul The ordeal she must have endured Being shunned by a whole community I wonder What if she were innocent? And I think how very sad that After spending her whole adulthood Being ostricized A pariah to a town of ignorants That even in death This poor woman still Remains hidden Still an outcast Though centuries have passed A tear glides down as I lay a bright red rose At the base of her headstone A splash of color and A token of solidarity In her dull and unkempt world I step out of this copse of gloom And smile as I emerge back Into the sunlight of Today's more forgiving times.