MARY LISTER
- 20 hours ago
- 1 min read
By Maggie Davison
In spring, they praise you, as you gather cowslips and garlic.
They say you’re a beauty, a child of nature, a gift from God.
In summer, they queue at your cottage with sick children and animals,
leave with potions of liquorice root, sap, witch hazel and elder.
In autumn, they scoop up their children, pin a hare skin to your door,
place rowan twigs, tied with red thread, to their garden gates.
In winter, they drag you high on the hill, watch as flames burn your skin,
throw your body outside the churchyard wall.