Crone

She walks the lanes where moss clings to stone,
A crone with eyes that hold the dusk’s own tone.
Her hair, a silver veil, whispers of time,
Each strand a thread in the loom of prime.

Her hands, like gnarled roots, grasp the earth’s soft sigh,
Counting the secrets that the wind lets fly.
In cottage shadows, where the hearth glows low,
She spins old tales that only shadows know.

No youthful bloom, no fleeting, bright flare—
Just wisdom worn like a well‑loved chair,
Steady, enduring, queerly kind,
A quiet force in the heart of mankind.

So honour her, the crone, the keeper of lore,
Whose presence settles the restless floor,
For in her gaze the ages convene,
A timeless flame, both calm and serene.