Notes From the Archbishop

They would not allow these eyes to see her burn
My youth demanding reticence and tact
But from my bedroom window there did turn
The scent of lavender to choking ash
I knelt there squinting at the ordered hoard
As though to witness demons dancing free
But knowing in my mind the task was flawed
For the demons they pursued were based in me.

Where moon met sky there lay a watery film
Much like the glassy liquid of her grief
A heartless popping echoed from the kiln
The sound of justice welded to belief.

If she could understand she would be proud:
Mother always longed to stand out from the crowd.