Rootchewer

Words here always spread
As a plague upon the wind
Sometimes they can kill just the same . . .
After the owl’s call
Before the shadow’s fall
‘twas witching hour when the stranger came.

On that night the town
That slept so well before
Had ears and eyes awake in every door
When the shadows moved
They clutched at all they knew
And somehow found a thousand questions more.

They say he sleeps beneath the soil
So far below those twisted trees
Is if to shun the world of fellow men
He slips away on adder’s coils
Untouchable as winter’s breeze
And there’s no epitaph where he descends.

The voice of reason leaves
The village in a hush
He sits alone with eyes upon the door
The cold is creeping in
The fire fades to coal
His shadow moves like rats upon the floor.

When the sickle of the crescent moon
Has cut its way out of the clouds
Reflecting in the pools that scar the land
They say that marsh wisps wild and blue
Like faeries in his wake shall dance
And spiders weft the truth upon his hand.