The Witch of Pittenweem

Philip Carter


They dragged her through the dark woods,

Tied her grey braids to the broken tree

There she fell,

And slept.


The crashing seas

Below her

Sang her name.


We lay desolate,



In our warm beds.

It was then that

We heard

The black headed raven speak.


Philip Carter is originally from the West Country but now living in East Anglia. He is a craftsman, illustrator, artist, gardener, and allotmenteer. He likes to watch clouds and drink coffee.

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