Sunken stones in an ancient wood
mark the foundations where a dwelling stood.

Within a ring of giant oaks
once stood that abode where darkness cloaks
the ground on which only toadstools grow,
and the forest creatures will not go.

They say an artful witch lived there,
who hid a formula somewhere
among the ruins of that site.
That place where even day is night.

I heard the story of that place
and went in search to find a trace
of that old secret that was hidden.
To the eyes of mortal man forbidden.

I fought through thicket, thorn and bush,
forever onward did I push.
Driven by my blind ambition
to find the witch’s weird prescription.

Suddenly my way was barred
by a ring of oaks, all standing guard,
and within my breast my heart did race
from fear of that infernal place.

Yet, on I went into the clearing,
forcing back my dread and fearing
of the punishment those trees might wreak
on that forbidden game of hide-and-seek.

Then heaving out a desperate groan
from heaving up a massive stone;
heart thumping wildly in my breast,
I beheld the object of my quest.

A wooden casket half rotted away,
yet still protecting from decay,
a parchment furled and rolled up tight,
there, before my wide eyed sight.

That precious scroll, worth more than gold,
by trembling hands was soon unrolled.
And in my grasp, before my eye:
a recipe for acorn pie.

As I knelt there on that cold, dank ground,
from the circle of oaks there came a sound.
A murmur spread from tree to tree,
those accursed oaks were laughing at me.