Not maid for any man,
Nor made for maidenly wiles,
She found cleverness a steel strength,
And mercy a weakness
She could ill afford.
Beauty is simply another word for soft.
Hands of stone and harsh of voice,
She had none of the things that women have,
Save secrets.

Woodland bowers of her home
Climbed the primordial climb.
By her roofs, thrushes fed
And wandering winged found their rest,
Even things never meant to fly, due to her,
Bespoilt by intruders from lands exotic
Bringing rebellion, death, and disharmony
To what had lasted for ages untold.
Up against down and forward turning back
The greenery of her long tended garden
Blackened with her bilious rage.
The gnawing of the ill wind that brought
The defiler to her shores
Seized a glimmer of her spirit
And held it fast in icy teeth
Which no hedge charm could turn.

Axes spoke rough discourses
On trees that fell.

Family trees.

 Anguish broomed caution aside,
She vowed to show them
The true meaning of wicked.

Her memory replayed its sickly odor
Until madness made a way
And like a moon-dial, swung her shadow
Over warded lands
To wreak her vengeance -
All else be damned.

There was but one punishment for this crime.
As the heroine of her own story
She had the right, nay the duty
To kill the outlander witch
That slew her sister in the wattled copse.