Where stone stands to mark the grave,
You will find at the foot of the bed,
He who greets the dead.
Wrapped in heavy, thick grey blankets,
Like those dragged out to stave off the cold,
Folded around his frame but hanging loose,
With only a small gap peeking out of his hood,
And amongst the dark shadows spy,
One jagged white slit eye.
From under the weighty clothing,
Peers a pale and sickly hand,
With stained brittle nails,
Which aids him to stand.
Atop the stave rests a golden beetle,
Stuck onto a spindly bone,
And here the power lies for the greeter,
Who never ceases his roam.
One may find him waiting,
With an offer.
He will guide the transformation,
Of which one seeks.
To become a creature of the land, or sea or sky.
To manifest as a brand new being born to a new family.
The change is guided by him,
But directed by the soul whose choice it is.
Sometimes, it is said,
One can hear around the Yews that line the tombs,
The ticking of the beetle upon the stave,
A ticking which haunts,
Like the sound of a clock,