The Elm at the Barrow’s Edge

Elm drinks the dusk from barrow deep,
Her bark is rough with grief unspoken,
She sings where mortal dreams dare sleep.
Each knot a vow, each scar a token.

Beneath her limbs, the shadows rest—
As she stands beside the earthen door
Of the nameless, lost, the unconfessed,
Where once the elves danced evermore.

They call her Wych, the whisper-bough,
And in her sway, the air grows cold,
A bride of night, the coffin’s vow.
A hush of things too grave to hold.

She knows the price the living paid.
So leave cider, song, or silver ring,
As her roots entwine with ghost and glade—
Where elm leaves fall in fae-born spring.

And step with care—in her shade so wide,
Leave a mushroom gift, or a lover’s breath,
Yet be aware, of fae who sleep in or beside,
These may summon that which dwells past death.

The wind through elm is not just wind,
But wings with eyes bright, but far from kind—
They feed on names once lost, or half-rescinded.
For they can see the flaw in every mind.

The song of the lyre haunts this ground,
So if you pass this sacred tree,
Where lovers weep, and stars fall down.
You may feel your shadow twist and flee—

Know this: she guards the gate unseen,
She does not bless. She does not warn.
Where memory walks, and time grows lean.
She simply stands where veils are torn.

And when you dream beneath her limb,
You wake not whole—but more like them.