Witches
Upon the silent shores of thought, there comes a gentle strain, Memories of gone by folk, a breeze which does remain. Of folk whose lives just like the wave, upon the beach that dies, Of lives accused of witchcraft,spells, A tale of darkened lies. And how a twisted thought can live upon the shores of Love, where the Children run and play With hats and coats and gloves. A thought that claimed a thousand lives and more before it stilled, exists today just like before Of ego and self will. A hate which makes a darkened path for oppressed folk to walk, begins with blackened thoughts of rage and gossip, idle talk. Margaret Barclay "cursed a ship", was strangled hanged in fear, Matthew Shepard beaten, killed for being different from his peers. Now immigrants and gay folk stand amidst hate's wating crimes, torn apart by idle tongues while thoughts are stuck in time. When Bessie Dunlop died in flames did Love at all remain? Did hatred rise and hear her cries with complete utter disdain? Upon the beaches Ayr and Largs, or Irvine's sandy dunes, behold the water as it flows playing its lowly tunes. Yet amid the clearest stream a shadow long does rise, casting shades and darkened webs across the brightest sky. Upon your gentle shores of thought when waves weave gentle strains, build your fortress thoughts of Love and there let Love remain.