being a response to Writers' Island's one word prompt: Superstitions
Her duties for the day began
with exercices spirituel
beside the pool, her gazing pool,
in which she'd gaze to see herself,
the beauties of her form revealed,
upon whose lines was clearly writ -
in silent waters, deathly still -
the status of her spirit's health.
The slightest ruffle, though, would kill
the signs - and compromise her soul.
That morning, unbeknown to her,
a town boy, poacher, Joe by name,
the scourge of decent folk, had hid -
all unaware the pool was bare,
that any sort of fish was banned -
in bushes for his evening meal.
(The pool was crescent-shaped, the two
might have been many worlds apart.)
Joe loaded his large catapult,
took a long pull and careful aim -
and fired his ground bait at the pool.
As if a storm of hail had hit,
the mirrored images dissolved;
her soul was rent in twain and pain;
the darkened sky was torn apart
and she collapsed; was close to death.
For seven years the demons came
and ghosts would haunt her sleepless nights,
and never would a day go by
but some calamity would strike
cold fear and sorrow in her heart.
And still to some in modern days
a shattered glass can do the same!
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