Alice Parrs – 1742

3 July 2025

Died, seventeen-forty-two.
Time a sock, hole straight through.
Name were Alice. Parrs by kin.
Wore the bog like second skin.
Teeth like stone, eye like pitch.
Spoke to bone. Maybe witch?
Lived up near Spindle Stack,
Drank spider soup, in bog-skin bag.
Sang in tongue, stitched up bat.
Dreams laid flat on rotten mat.
Aye, she did. Took em all.
Childer soft as summer fall.
She called em close, sugared breath,
Wrapped em up in old-time death.
Burned her near Crow-Black Moor,
Fire don’t stop what come before.
Now when dusk begin stir,
Feel world remember her.
Walk mist where none should be,
Hum on wind, hear her plea.
Out there still twitchy grin,
Knocking soft on soggy skin.
When it howl, night gone wrong,
Don’t name her. Don’t hum her song.