I

They called the old woman a witch,
Drove her from her home.
She found a refuge
Deep in the forest.

Her family resented her:
Suspicion followed them,
Mutterings when they walked
Down the village streets.

Her grand-daughter blamed her
For the bullying she suffered.
She resolved to search
Until she found her.

II

The girl prepared carefully,
Packing a basket of food
And wearing a woolen cloak
Against the elements.

The trees loomed dark
As she ventured forth,
Following forest trails
For mile after mile,

Until tired and footsore
She finally spied smoke
Rising from a clearing
In which stood a crude hut.

III

Timidly she approached.
A barking dog announced her
And the door was opened,
Revealing a filthy crone.

“Grandmother?” she called,
“Can that really be you?”
She knew the answer
Even as she spoke the words.

Her rage at her grandmother,
The reason for her torment,
Took hold and the girl
Grabbed an ax from the woodpile.

IV

Incoherent screams sent birds
Flying from the surrounding trees.
The red mist cleared.
The old woman lay dead.

Leaving the body there
To attract the forest predators,
The girl made her way home,
Designing a sad tale.

Sobbing as she returned,
She told of the wolf’s attack.
Relief that the witch was dead
Blinded people to her lies.

V

Tales were told of the girl
Risking the wild forest
To bring food to Grandmother.
Her cloak was blood red.