Old Iron Heart
Struck fear into the hearts of children
With her shoes of skulls
And her gloves of sick man's skin
And her skirt of woven corpse's hair
She was gray, gray, gray
Like the clouds before they drop their rain
Like a mirror under a hundred years of dust
Like a pile of ashes after the fire burns out
But her eyes were two red cinders
Burning behind the smoky curtain of her hair
The Witch of the Wilds
Where the bears bellow
And the stags rut
And the little squirrels scatter the tree babies
Over the open-armed bed of the earth
Her house was built of bones
And eyes lined every window
As a witch she needed no door
Her house was always moving
To where a weary traveller
Or wandering child
Could least expect
There was no sound in her realm
Not a crow cawed, not a fly buzzed
Everything was still, still as a deaf corpse in the grave
The unhappy traveller who finds her
Will never speak again
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