The Yew Tree

Broken Feather rode across the dusty plain.
The sun was a hot red eye.
The jagged hills stood brown against the sky.
Broken Feather met Death upon the plain.
I found his white bones in the dust.
I found the feathers scattered in the waste places.
The white wing feather was broken.
The black feathers were ragged and ruffled.
If I bring them together he will find his power.
The fear of his power will be his death.
His death will be the finding of his power.
He cannot escape this ring, nor the feather of his name.

I will give them to him, his weapons and his name,
To seek in the dark places for his power,
Where it lies hid in the bronze mirror,
In the place of forgetting.