_(Part 2 of Beware)_

I had always thought of my Grandmother as backwards,

How she sang to the blackbirds.

She used to spend long times away,

But she would always come back with clay.

It would be painted with such intricate patterns,

That should only be on royal platters.

My mother told me to never mention Grandmother,

Others called her the Necromancer.

I was oblivious to the meaning,

Until I was out cleaning.

I had stumbled across a book,

And I walked to the brook.

It was my favourite place,

It felt like a cool, comfortable embrace.

As I started to read,

The trees started to bleed.

The dead they sprouted,

As for help I shouted.

Though, I was not hurt,

And they seemed quite alert.

They asked, ‘Where is your Grandmother, child?

For she shall make us not wild’

I did not know what to say,

And I backed away.

As a Crow let out a single caw,

I was in awe.

I ran until I was home,

Past the silly fishing gnome.

My grandmother was the Necromancer,

And I prayed they wouldn’t reprimand her.