Witch

Smith Rock was home to righteous folk, of honest work and vigor.

Strong wooden houses built up strong along the woods and river.

With deadwood oak and willow trees that water flowed on by.

A steady stream and heavy current where people sometimes died.

A place where children shouldn't play, and none would argue this.

White churned foam and jutted rocks, a trap you couldn't miss.

Yet, the fence was strong and stretched out long, so little care was given.

Old Adda's house was across the river, and children loved to visit.

She loved them to old Adda did, she kept them there quite often.

But on that day the wind blew hard, the fence was made to kneel.

Poor Linda Ross danced by the rocks; the song was hers to feel.

And on that day the wind blew hard, the river took the girl.

She slipped and fell and went in fast, the currents whipped and whirled.

A fortnight passed till she washed up on the shallow river bank.

The town would mourn tearfully, with hearts that broke and sank.

When little Linda Ross was found not much else was certain. Aside from

the fact that she had drown adorn in white plaid flannel gown.

And some would claim it was the Grey that drew her to the water.

That awful thing that slumbered deep, that led the lamb to slaughter.

Yet, others turn their eyes toward the house of Broadmire Bend.

Her silver hair and foreign tongue gave them more to fear than love.

She was a hermit after all and had no roots to claim.

So it went, the town would give to her all its blame.

Their hate and fear a growing song that reached a fever pitch.

With decisions made and weapons beared, they made their angry way.

Across Smiths Rock the mob would grow, gathering in strength.

From her window old Adda saw the group approaching fast.

Their torches lit, and ropes in hand, trampling the grass.

They stormed the steps and hammered on the heavy wooden door.

It toppled in, the frame gave way, the hinges hit the floor.

Screaming loud, refusing to let justice be denied.

They seized on her, taking the rope, swinging it up high.

Around the beam of old Addas house, the noose would take its shape.

Cold iron clasped around her wrists, there would be no escape.

Around her neck the knot was tied, and high on up she went.

The beam would creak, her legs would swing, her feet would kick and twitch.

And on that eve, they buried deep the Broadmire witch.