The Hanging oak.

Acern cast wooded deep, in crimson mire my gallowed bough creaked.
Cleaved then hewed set on holy ground, words to heed, convey I am bound.
The hand that toucheth with bloodied past must beware his fate cometh fast,matter he not be it night or day,
his wretched bitter soul be fetched away.

                                                                       COPYRIGHT 2010