Stones which, until that day, had been stacked high as towers and walls.
Looming, venerable, oppressive walls.
But now they serve to provide stability, for her footsteps.
Serenely she marches into the tarn
In triumph, that daughter of Hecate strides the rippled mirror
Where regal swans so recently floated.
Such cygnids took flight, disturbed by assaults on ramparts nearby
As coven, together found, new freedom.
Sisters of the lineage, undoing false consecrations.
Spells were cast, skulls were cracked, and sunk was that blighted cathedral.
No fowl could be seen on the water now.
As fiery thoughts temper there, madame lights a cigarette.
Victory can provide hope hereafter.
But greed and chance bring about a different kind of holey land
Flags spring up there, during that brief repose.
Returned - the swans now play golf, where those mistresses were bloodied.
Heedlessly, victory has been usurped.
Witches know well the nature of Time - yet still are cursed by it.
A coven collectively drowned beneath,
The deluge of opportunists, who always seem to prevail.