Twas a chilling night,
And the rain; it did pour,
As from her mother’s arms,
Newborn Quility they tore.

Her mother fell silent,
As they bound her to the stake,
Her sinless eyes resting on her daughter,
For her beliefs to not forsake.

The flames; they did rise,
To steal her slender years,
Her own smoke did choke her,
And fuelled her baby’s tears.

But long after the ashes had gone,
And the saluting crowd had dispelled,
The maiden Quility lived on,
In the home of false peers she dwelled.

A pretty young girl she grew to be,
With only one major flaw,
A repulsion of the Catholic Church,
Which—in her land—broke the law.

Her beliefs branched off
Of the Catholic tree,
And wandered far into nature,
A witch she would be.

One fateful summer eve,
Quility rose from her dreams,
And took a stroll through the fields,
The moon showered her with his beams.

Upon roaming in the dark,
And by an unknown influence,
She found refuge in a certain tree,
A place where all sacred held confluence.

But fate stepped in,
And another saw her pray,
An innocent and candid clergyman,
So fearful, he didn’t know what to say.

So in his shocked state of mind,
He took with haste from that spot,
And with a distant tremble in his throat,
Told the canon of her plot.

Awoken the next morning,
Having slipped back into bed,
Quility sensed evil and spite nearby,
So to her tree she again fled.

Yet the malicious canon,
With knife and dagger not sated,
Pursued her through her sacred ground,
His hatred over-rated.

Her small feet skipped well through grass,
But upon reaching Old Eve’s road,
His heavy boots did hold bonus,
Hastening his wicked load.

Her further senses aroused,
Quility sped with immortal aid,
But the man was quicker,
And with a grin, drew his blade.

His grasp was invincible,
And struggle was a short one,
The canon left with a glint in his eye,
His amoral damage done.

The maiden’s eyes were distant,
Fine droplets lined their case,
Red droplets lined her robe,
And she sought her sacred space.

Lifting herself with difficulty,
And scanning the horizon past,
She rose her head with resolve,
An energy spell she cast.

Meanwhile the canon, in town,
Drank to his victory and it’s entire,
But the others would not repose,
For a witch needs face the fire.

Of the company that had gathered,
Few rest aside,
For the witch was still with them,
By God’s law they would abide.

Canon, he shook his head,
Determined she was of late,
But the villagers joined together,
Concentrating their hate.

Finishing his ale in one draught,
He agreed to prove the witch dead,
Collecting his hat and cloak,
Half of the ignorant village he lead.

The powers of nature guiding her,
Quility ignored the naïve,
Until at last she stumbled upon,
Her well-known place of leaves.

Pulling the branches aside,
And entering her holy retreat,
Her eyes lifted and once again she saw,
Her altar, her cache, her seat.

Slowly the villagers trundled,
Without organisation or immediate grace,
Only to shout even louder,
To find that the body had left it’s place.

The Canon, his eyes did darken,
Looking to the sky as if for aid,
And grasping the knife’s hilt even tighter,
His ire and wrath to her he bade.

Opening her arms over head,
And her body to the forces above,
Quility felt the pain disappear,
For a brief second she knew nothing but love.

Replays of her real mother,
She cried out in anguish and loss,
Then knowing that the time was right,
She threw herself down onto the moss.

Her body collapsed,
Her eyes closed,
Her soul did linger,
Before into the branches it rose.

The tree’s leaves rustled in peace,
Draining away her last tear,
And from inside the tree itself,
She watched her past body disappear.

The villagers never did find her,
The canon did no more,
And in a divine state of faith,
Quility still gives aid to all witches, future, present and before.