Mountain Witch

Deep in the hollows where the fog hangs low,

In a cabin of pine where wild roses grow,

Lives the one they call the Witch of Black Mountain,

Her eyes like coal and her hair white as snow.

Some say they've seen her gathering roots,

In moonlight that beckons restless souls.

Others swear time stands still around her,

As minutes stretch out under her spell.

They say don't go near Witch Hollow at night,

When the moon rides high and the owls take flight.

For the Witch of Black Mountain watches you,

With mystical potions and spells that she brews.

Three boys with cameras, whiskey in hand,

Went looking for thrills on a Halloween night.

They returned with eyes wild and haunted by visions,

And knowledge too dark to be shared.

A hunter found a broken-down cabin,

Empty and silent, or so he first thought.

All alone, he could feel eyes upon him.

"I've been waiting," she whispered in his ear.

They say don't go near Witch Hollow at night,

When the moon rides high and the owls take flight.

For the Witch of Black Mountain watches you,

With mystical potions and spells that she brews.

Some nights, when winds sweep through the pine and oak,

Her laughter chills the valley down below.

And those who've wandered into her domain,

Feel moonlight's pull that won't let them go.

The sheriff won't venture past Miller's old fencepost,

The preacher just crosses himself with a frown.

When strange things happen, no one can explain,

All eyes gaze to the witch's mountain throne.

They say don't go near Witch Hollow at night,

When the moon rides high and the owls take flight.

For the Witch of Black Mountain watches you,

For the Witch of Black Mountain watches you.

Alan Simpson