by Janine Phillips
I am the generations that never came to be.
I am the unborn bairn felled from our family tree,
chopped down before given a chance to seed.
I am the whisper of a fallen autumn leaf.
I am the angry storms that cried down from the skies
in protestation of the last day of my life.
As rivulets of rain bled from my eyes
the river of my tortured soul ran dry.
I am the young maid who never laid in love,
the lusty lover who never loved enough.
The childless mother without a belly round.
I am the hag, the crone, the aged and elder one.
I am the ashes now dirt beneath your feet.
The mulch that makes your harvest oh so sweet.
the new buds born of my defeat,
as I lay resting in ancient bogs and fens of peat.
I am the early morning sun that never broke.
The praise of dawn I wish that had been spoke.
The one more day so I could play . . .
but alas, I never woke.
I am the faded light from an unseen setting sun
casting shadows on a life too quickly gone.
I am a ray of hope blown out with my last breath.
I am the unknown witch not ready for her death.
Janina Grey 