Witches' Stones

A crow alights on a witches’ stone,

a dog is worrying at a bone,

the moon is in the sky alone.

The chimney belches columnar smoke,

the crow falls silent, starts to choke,

a spell is more than the words she spoke.

Alone in the garret, the servant’s room,

lonely Elspet rides the broom,

until her cheeks have the succubus bloom,

at the keyhole Dendrick, drooling, spies,

delights at the feast before his eyes,

prepares himself for the witch-girls lies.

The crow is gone, for a year and a day,

six dogs – a pack – cavort and play,

for Dendrick’s fun there’s a price to pay;

for every dog there is a bitch,

a servant to scratch her master’s itch,

until it’s time to burn the witch.