Old Mother Elder

by Richard H. Fay

The vile transformed witch waits impatiently
As she stands rooted to the muddy ground.
In the shape of a scraggly elder tree
She speaks no spells and utters not a sound.

The hag hopes one of Adam’s wayward sprigs
Will be out looking for some wood to cut,
And brings home one of her own bloody twigs
So she can wreak fell havoc in his hut.

A woodsman wise in lore does wander by.
He knows the words to say and what to do.
The doomed old crone lets out a dreadful cry
As her black pithy heart is split in two.

You should ask the Old Gal’s permission first
Ere you hew her, or risk becoming curst.