The Burning by Richard Reed Jr

The moon hung like a darkened pond
which scarcely reflected the moon

shimmering her cold message
to the world below.

Christina and Jonathon Blake
And their neighbors the Wilson's

lived Thirty miles from London At Piny Waters
In a wilderness full of home:

a bleary butterfly in the wind
struggling like a school-child

with Shakespeare. The Globe, Christina thought,
and went on to recite some Hamlet to herself.

She wondered what Anne and Henry next door
were doing now, probably worshiping in their way.

She claimed no prejudice toward her neighbors
but had to admit according to the church they were odd owls.

They owned a pet cat, thought to be a disguise of the devil.
They questioned everything they didn't believe was right,

and dancing made them ecstatic who would have thought:
they were right in the head, but they were very fun loving.

Even though the church frowned on the desire for fun
Christina couldn't help but find it exciting.

Next door, Anne was also pondering about
when the Blake's baby got sick, they prayed

day and night for his healing. He died.
They sewed him in a scrap of carpet.

Then, they buried him in a hole in the ground
and cried: far from the pagan celebration of life in death.

The Blake's and the Wilson's became good friends
in spite of their religious differences,

after all it was the ancestors of the Blake's
who helped generations of Wilson's drop seed

and take root here in their new country, England,
but the times would render asunder their friendship.

In those years of the fifteen hundreds
even An empire was too small for more than one religion.

During those times any one labeled: bewitched
was tied to the stake. Not even cats could live in the burning times.

One gloomy morning with an evil fog hanging over the bogs
and a stench of burning flesh pervading the air

a small band of frocked vigilantes rode out of the east.
Resounding hoof beats clattered, front yard chickens scattered.

The Blake's hastened like panic-stricken deer
out and into their front yard,

peering and fearing the worst.
It was over in a matter of minutes.

The Wilson's were dragged out of their house
scratching, screaming, wailing

like Gaelic banshees from the north.
Struggling was futile

Through the fog one could only hear crackling
and over the crackling a voice of damnation,

a swearing scalding oath
"One should not suffer a witch to live".

Friendless foggy bogs stretching far away.

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The Burning
by Richard Reed Jr
copyright 10-12-2007

Age Rating: 10 to 127

Prose-n-Poetry.com

The Burning by Richard Reed Jr copyright 10-12-2007 Age Rating: 10 to 127

The Burning
by Richard Reed Jr
copyright 10-12-2007

Age Rating: 10 to 127