BLASTED HEATH (Poetry Monthly)

Tormented twisted twigs

On rotting trees

Point to blackened sky

With creaking fingers

On trembling hands.

Round shrouded moon

Their tangled tresses trailing,

Night-cloaked spectres swoop and glide

On bloody limbs

Wrenched from screaming stumps;

Fling ghastly spells and hexes

Into gaping cauldron’s mouth.

Three hissing sisters sit

And stir the blistering broth

Seasoned with tears and wailing

Of doomed mankind

While burning forests march, relentless,

Down the hill.