The Wutch Tree

The Wytch Tree

Past the wytch tree. to hang-man's wood,
The moon shone low on rusted chains,

Where the black crow keeps old brotherhood,
And whispers gather, like Hurricanes. 

The briars clutch with crooked hands,
Each hollow stump, and moss-worn stone,

Guarding forgotten, haunted lands,
Remembering names, no church has known. 

A lantern swings where no wind blows,
An owl counts hours without a bell,

Through fields where bitter nightshade grows,
Above the roots, the wytch tree swells. 

The scarecrow smiles, a stitched-up grin,
The hedgerow hums an ancient hymn,

Inviting wandering spirits in,
Where every star burns cold and dim. 

The pumpkins glow with amber eyes,

The bonfire spits forgotten prayers,
Reflecting ghosts across black skies,

And ashes dance like rabid hares.

So, tread with care when darkness falls,
For All hallows eve. remembers still

Behind the ivy-covered walls,
The wytch tree, just beyond the hill.