The Scorned

A course of sorrow dogged her darkened step through all of the saddened days,

Winsome appeal beneath fine lace and petticoats of the boldest linen,

The whispers of 'witch' under every breath and behind every hateful eye.

 She swallowed each indignity down before the light of day and donned a mask of stone on a countenance so fair,

A stunning mask as a spoonful of delight to those beguiled onlookers who dared cast a glance her way,

Downcast eyes on her dainty boots, her silent footfalls on the last brown leaves of autumn.

 Her communion was beneath the waters of the roaring falls and in the moss of the weeping branches,

With all things of nature intertwined and her spirit so with them, she of fields and the vast wood, 

She was 'other' to those of little understanding, because she danced in moon shadow and her crystals glistened in the light of the stars.

 Screaming crowds thronged in the end to the pyre to watch the flames reach for the leering moon, a knot of hate in each of their holy hearts for devils and creatures of nightly evils,

Her beautiful heart broke and her realization awakened to her own plight,

The winds blew in suddenly and the fire danced and swayed, the wolves howled in a mournful symphony.

 She stood as if she meant to speak, peering into a forest of devouring darkness,

Her eyes took on a dark glow and antlers began to swirl upwards like tree trunks from the crown of her head,

She had been spared by the Old Gods, she leapt away from the flames and thereafter bounding swiftly into the swirling mists of the Wood.

 Now we ever care to glimpse her when we hear this tale, a white doe or a glistening young buck,

Haunches poised to run, luminous eyes scanning for danger,

She is the watcher in the woods, gleaming hide and heaving flank, guardian of wild hearts.