Under the black yew tree, the pale girl waits.
Hair knotted, eyes sunken, feet coated in mud.
She sits in the gloom from dawn until late,
singing strange notes, garbled by blood
that pours from her mouth, her nose and her eyes.
It runs from her body and pools on the ground.
If you were to visit, then it would be wise
to keep your mouth shut and not make a sound,
as she hates people and will not delay
in charging towards them, eyes frenzied, claws splayed.
She doesn’t distinguish between friends and prey.
If you have a brain then you should be afraid.
For the blood that runs freely is not her own,
You don’t want to be under one of these stones.