Witch Trial

Finding my way home at dusk
with a basket that cut ridges on my forearm –
heavy with stones-once-bread and the nuts I’d picked,
something arrested me:
a camellia reek
or the flush of camellias which is
such special pink. Pinched at my heart,
spun the blood from my chest up and down like tides
of milk on the string of the moon, the blonde churner, begged me
to turn my head.

Even in the lush white pool
of the April night, it was like a test:
have you forgotten the spring at Cerne Abbas,
and on the grass those six cats dead.

© Chloe Stopa-Hunt, 2011

Project Details

  • Date June 19, 2015
  • Tags Chloe S-H Witch Trial