The Raven

No one visits,
no visitors visit
her home.

More witch than woman,
they say
something like that.

Living alone stirs rumours,
tales become more,
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, the 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 a burning place.
The moor is hidden,
not a living soul around.

Gone before the judgement
police come knocking,
and kill her with stones.

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