Hag Of Oak Hollow

By Moe Phillips

Battered hat and mud stained cloak,
creeps from beneath the hollowed oak.
Sulfur curls through stagnant air,
remnants of what once was hair.
On bony hands twines midnight lace.
Of fingernails- there is no trace.
Sprouting from a withered chin,
a whisker pokes sharp as a pin.
A spattered satchel holds a book
filled with names of lives she took.
The ancient pages torn and creased
the clasp: the claw of a fabled beast.
She squats beside the narrow road,
a deadly, twisted, blistered toad.