They say, here in New England, the
devil, Old Scratch himself,
still roams these ancient woods,
old growth, deep and dark,
on his cloven hooves, his bearded
ram’s head searching,
horns reaching skyward, and his
broad axe hefted, hewing
the trees he seeks, the ones on
which a name is carved,
a deal signed long ago, signed in
blood and bark, the debt of a soul
due now, deals for rich rewards made
in our desperation,
a low point, when life was dragging
us much too soon to the grave,
a tree now fallen and a soul
redeemed and gone to hell’s burning fires;
And the witches, too, moonlit in a
forest clearing, dancing, chanting,
preying upon the village, wild
women, Salem’s Sisters,
their coven music, the songs that
lure our children to them, are carried
among the trees and into our ears,
airy, barely audible, but clearly heard.
Their now-collected herbs and
concoctions are left to brew in a cauldron
black with age, an elixir, a
potion, a poison, eye of newt, toe
of a toad, a fiery dragon’s breath
to hatch the evil contained within,
a spell to suck out the very
breaths of the children drawing
to themselves an immortality of
youth and beauty, time and magic;
And the skeletons rise from their
graves this one night, soul-less,
a hallowed eve of fear and fright,
graves that cannot hold them in, torn
asunder, their shrieks and screams raised,
too, piercing the night air
suddenly turned colder, and we wrap
our arms around us; shrieks and screams
that rattle our window panes and
the sashes we’ve pulled tight, rattling
us, too, lying here trembling, their
deep moans grieving their troubled
pasts, the evil they dealt in, the deals
they made, deals called-in in the felling
of a tree deep in the ancient
woods, their names carved into its trunk,
Old Scratch come back to reclaim another
soul, a debt repaid.
And a single pumpkin, lit from
within, grinning, watches and waits.
So on a windy night in autumn, the
storms dark and fierce,
we listen for the falling of a
tree, a crash of thunder, flash
of lightening, a resounding thud
that startles us awake,
catches us up short, and we
question, deep in our souls, does this tree
fall for us, payment of a debt made
long ago in our youth, unbelieving
and fearing nothing, wild and
ambitious and cocky, brash and unafraid;
but old age makes us remember being
young, wondering if perhaps those
Puritan ancestors really did know
that truth about the devil and warned us,
though, we didn’t heed their words
in our search for wealth and fame, riches
beyond belief, bought at a price,
paid for with our souls, now summoned
at the felling of a tree, Old Scratch much alive in New England’s ancient woods.
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