The Witch O' the Withered Moor (Poem)

 

The Witch O' the Withered Moor

In yon hollow where the blackwoods sleep, 

’Neath boughs that bend and secrets keep, 

A maiden treads with bare, pale feet  

Her voice a hush, her heart discreet. 

She keeps no fire, she keeps no kin, 

The bramble guards her milk-white skin. 

A garland wrought of willow grey, 

She calls the stars from miles away. 

The townsfolk whisper, wan with fright, 

Of candles burning through the night; 

They say she charms the milk to sour, 

And draws the storm from out the hour. 

Yet still she roams when dusk is drawn, 

Along the track the moonlight’s on; 

Her gaze, like frost on chapel glass, 

Sees what through mortal eyes may pass. 

The river hums her lonesome tune, 

It winds beneath the weeping moon; 

The wind stoops low through hedge and thorn, 

To kiss the child no man has borne. 

For she was shaped from lunar gleam, 

No Christen'd soul, nor mortal dream; 

Her heart a bell of spectral chime, 

That tolls beyond the reach of time. 

And when the frost bites deep and hard, 

And silence haunts the churches yard, 

Her shadow blooms through fog and fern 

The witch for whom the wilds still yearn. 

Barefoot queen of fen and fire, 

Bride of mist and heart’s desire 

Though priests may curse, and goodwives swoon, 

She dances still beneath the moon.