The Hangman's Tree Poem by Chris Embrick

Just beyond the cliffs of Dover
Still stands the ancient, weathered oak
Since Viking days watches over
Kent's country side and village folk
They say Merlin sowed the acorn
It's deep roots reaching Hell's bowels
A place to hear the witch's mourn
A nest for ravens, midnight owls
Empty now the witch's kettle
No cursed man hanging for the crime
No more dried toads and bat spittle
The tree no more out living time
Morbid silhouette still to see
All hurry past the hangman's tree.

The first to hang stole a locket
From the Earl's stout Lady Fairchild
Found in the carpenter's pocket
A kind man not to be reviled
He begged for mercy but got none
For theft his neck the first to break
Cruel justice for the crime he'd done
New rope to hold the guilty's weight
The noose the death justice demands
After prayer, wears the black hood
While spectators jeer the doomed man
The rope is thrown over polished wood
In Summer's stillness not a breeze
To the man beneath the hangman's tree.

Some claim their ghostly figures see
Some hear the phantoms struggle, choke
Their restless souls cry out in misery
Around their necks, the hangman's rope
Before the sunset the death watch starts
Men gamble how long death will take
Some would choose a knife through the heart
Than think of dying while they wait
The ancient tree more dead than not
No more men hanging for the crime
It's heartwood oozing with foul rot
It's lived through all the darkest times
Only the foolish dare not flee
That ghastly sight, the hangman's tree.