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PUMPKIN AND YEW PIE – BY STEVIE TURNER

A rustling of the yew in October’s breeze,
While over her grave it sheds a few leaves.
They rot in the soil with what’s left of her corpse,
Rain drenches the ground where once she had walked.
Burned at the stake in seventeen-o-two,
Jane looks down from the top of the yew.
She wasn’t a witch, and it wasn’t a trick,
She’d learned from her mother how to heal the sick.
Potions, plants…