Inspired by a poem by Fiona Burgess. Posted here with permission from the author.

Frozen in time
Images divine
That never did cross
The great divide
Lying dormant in places
Where demons reside
Loved by those that
Understood
The power that lay
In those images of wood
Shadows written
And carved in stone
By the hands of
The proverbial crone
Who laughed with glee
Her work
She did see
In the hazy light
Of elements dire
Deep deep below
In chambers of fire
Child of blood and
Not of
Flesh
Her wizened face
Never youthful
Fresh
Yet life she gave
To those faces of rock
And to the ash
And to the oak
Till deep with envy
Her blood she did
Soak
And when at last her work was
Complete
She found that she felt
Replete
And stepped back
Into the world
Only to find that
In her obsession
And tireless work
Centuries had passed her by
And the children she created
Had to die
So she closed up those caverns
Of fire and sluggish flame
And the children angered,
Not wanting death
Began to rage
They screamed their agony
As the crone lay down
To age and inherent despair
Her hollow eyes and
Perpetual frown
Stilled as she succumbed to the air
A tattered wind did arise
And swept the dust through her
Amber hair
And as the sand began to whirl
And across ageless plains
Began to twirl
The rage of the children
Began to curl
Billowing plumes of hatred
And fear
Through the surface of the earth
Began to tear
The raged and battled,
Tore limb from limb
And the battle of the earth was joined
As the sky began to seethe
Within its gilded cage
The seas and rivers
Flew into a frenzy
And still the crone lay sleeping
And when the battle long fought was Done
There was nothing,
No sound
Of weeping
The children reclaimed
The crone
Her body no more than ashes
And they returned with her
To the dungeons of heat
The battle was done
And time was beat.