The Crone

I heard the crone with the besom

before dawn every morning,

idly in action on the hill ,

sweeping without hope

the red gold copper tide

of autumn leaves away

from the village.

No word, but a croon as old

as the cracked moon as she went,

bent rhythm unending until the light

made better sense of her task.

No one asked her to be relentless

in her senseless sweeping,

trying to hold back the season

with her wild haired broom.

Nobody looked from thankfully

dimmed windows at her actions,

afraid they would see her

holding back something worse

than the effluence of the trees.

But once, drunk or mad,

or in a dream, I swear I looked

and saw no witch but a woman

achingly alive and mature,

beautiful as a cherry tree

in full blossom,

gathering golden leaves

to her feet,

and laughing at the

bare treasure there.