No one visits;
no visitors visit
her home.
More a witch than a woman,
or they say something
like that in hushed tones.
Living alone stirs rumours,
tales become more and
soon blood may flow.
A beauty despite the time.
She refuses to brush her hair,
many curls, a bird appears.
Black eyes know the
way to and from this
world to the next.
The chimney sends smoke
puffing thick into the
atmosphere.
Careful, she leaves
no trace of who
she once was.
Only what is needed,
she takes from her home,
the place loved so well.
Moving on, she sets her
home alight, so no one
will find what she felt.
Hearing her home burning;
the moor hides and
not a living soul is around.
Gone before the judgement
police come knocking,
and kill her with stones.
C & K 