Black Annis

Not a witch, but a woman, just like your mothers.
The world was too loud, too bright, with the stench

of muck and mutton. My senses turned inward
like wheel spokes. I crept to the cave for silence,

for safety. It was my ark, whale belly. In the dark,
my skin shone like a salamander, veins branching

beneath lids and wrists: the blue face was always a myth.
The oak, however, did stand sentry, roots curving

into a portal. It sieved the wind from my sanctuary
and spun the rain into lace. At midnight, I would climb

the boughs, comforted by the creek, the soft bellowing
of stags, and my reflection mooning the sky.

Later, village children threw rocks at my walls,
chanting unfamiliar names. I shrunk to cave-tail,

rubbing at my conker-heart hair with stubby nails.
They started hanging sage above their doors, building

their windows small. I became hag-seed, warning,
bedtime story. Their nightmares kept the world away.

I lived quiet years, then died moss-swaddled beneath a bat-
draped canopy: they were always dressed for mourning.

Returning myself to the earth, I fed flies and foxes,
left behind enough legend, enough terror,

that no one dares disturb my immortal bones.