The Screaming Witch
 

There she stands, frozen and alone,
Grey and gaunt, grim against the sky.
Mouth agape, she screams at the wind,
And the wind shrieks back in infernal argument.

Lined, wrinkled face, cracked with pain.
Weathered wooden features, fashioned by free forces.
Battered daily for years, but once greenly elegant,
Lithe, leaf-adorned arms waving in the wind.

Her trunk was slim, smooth and straight,
Roots probed moist earth, clutching at the globe.
Refusing to let go; she clings and clutches still,
A wooden claw grasping at the earth.

Green grandeur gone, she stands as an ancient queen,
Not regal, but mystic, grey and black with magic.
Muddled, misty memories of a meeting place,
A lovers' tryst, or secret hiding place.

A shady sheltered perch for birds,
A climbing frame, or hangman's helper.
Landmark, watchtower, hoarder's house,
Nut-filled larder of squirrel, vole, mouse.

Your sisters have fallen and rotted with time,
Or blown down by great gusts, hurricane hatchets.
A pointed nose, hooked, as two eyes stare blankly,
Casting spells at passers-by.

Defiant, unmoving, almost like stone,
She is not petrified, just cold and alone.
Standing unworried, unhurried, creaking,
Silently screaming at the wind.