She's Looking For Her Grave Poem by Clive Culverhouse

there's a lady dressed in rags and robes
she's slowly skulking by the stones
of names and dates and faded mark
as mist and crows guide through the dark
she's looking for her grave

a single bell helps set her tread
a steady toll of calling dread
beckoning eyes that chance upon
this ageless figure's soul now gone
she's looking for her grave

her mouth it holds a large round stone
that forced a blooded fractured bone
and shattered teeth and stayed her tongue
to threaten not those she'll rise among
she's looking for her grave

a witch they called her when alive
who's words and spells brought all a strife
as village folk by stone they saw
to end her knives of blackened scorn
as each moon she leaves her grave