Black Aggie presides on the Druid Ridge,
taking children to her lap
that they may convene with bent-feathered
birds felled in her shadow.

And there on the Druid Ridge,
in the red eye of night she foots the grounds,
drags each from their slumbers,
calls forth to discuss the marrow.

Oft scorned and feared by black grasses
burned in her passing, stained by vandals
unfeigned hatred of grief, Aggie
remains for to harrow.

Cold, still, tormenting the Pikesville shroud
such that none could rest in the lime
of her stone-eye, such that none would test
the hand to reach into the pits of their loss,
to find each one a pulp for the barrow.