Beneath the bends of Barrymore
On the southwest winds she chants some more
The clouds scoot by beneath the moon
Some say she's crazy like the loon
Dressed in black she cackles back
Tossing ashes from a sack
She throws her body down
And moans and sobs into the ground
A dagger she does draw it forth
Holding it up for all its worth
She shrieks and damns her birth
And plunges it deep into her heart . . .
So ends the life of the despised young **** . . .

Now the owls come silently in
Alighting next to still warm skin
All walk around the disposed young beast
Only uttering "Who" to say the least
Then the great owl comes fluttering in
He'd be a giant if he were made of men
He collectively surveys the scene
Takes a few steps before he says a thing
"Take her body to Evermoor"
The great one orders and implores
And all the owls take to wing
Holding the remains of the breathless thing
And take her earthly shell away
And as drops of blood fell from the flow
to the earth a white rose would grow
Leaving a trail
To the land as some will say
To the sacred woods of Evermoor
Yes sacredness in evermore

A carpet of grass deft underfoot,
like a huge grey blanket swathing the landscape,
cold and bleak, enticing a quickened pace,
Whistling wind wraps around me like a skeletons arms,
teasing and beguiling me onwards toward a destination unknown,
on its breath ride the whispers of forgotten lost souls.
The moon peers down through a silken scarf of blackened clouds,
Its knowing face smiling sinuously, as if luring ships to the rocks on a tempestuous sea,
from its mouth fall beams of light that illuminate the hills and troughs ahead, like a procession of flickering lanterns on a majestic parade,
Blackened gnarled trees seem to bow in respect as the coldness of the night permeates my core,
their dark shapes appearing on the horizon, like tomb stones in some ancient graveyard.
So among this swathing scene unfolding and with coat collar raised, I merge with the shapes and disappear into the folds of night.