Poetry

by Angela Lucius

The old lady Marcum was eighty years old, 
When they laid her old bones in the ground.
And the church bell tolled at the local town church. 
But, the whispers flew all over town.
The rumors about her, it had often been whispered, 
She was more, than what first met the eye.
The feeble old woman was strong in her mind. 
She could hex you and you might even die.

She lived all alone in a small wood framed home, 
That sat near the edge of the wood.
She lived there in squaller, in the heart of a holler
And folks thought, she was up to no good.
She grew her own herbs and seemed somewhat disturbed, 
When strangers would wander nearby.
And they say, if you spoke in a manner displeasing, 
You'd be cursed by the look in her eye.

On the day of her death, no one seemed to bereft 
And the funeral was sad at the least.
For not one single person, would pay their respects. 
Nobody, that is, but the priest.
He prayed blessings upon her and peace for her soul. 
Then he placed a white rose on her grave.
And a silent tear welled and then rolled down his cheek, 
For he knew the huge price she had payed.

He'd once loved the old lady, when beauty she bore. 
As children they'd grown up as friends.
And he'd told her, he'd love her, for all of his life. 
But, his promise was lost in the winds.
He'd join up with the priesthood in service to God. 
A decision that shattered her essence.
She never once married and lonely she lived. 
A hermit and strange convalescent.

And all those who thought that they knew who she was, 
Went on with their life without care.
The thought never occurring, that he and the lady, 
Had once loved in a secret affair.
She'd never since spoken of her love for the priest, 
Or the day that he'd left her alone.
She'd carried her secret til death, in her heart.
Buried deep now and marked with a stone.