This road disappears,
a path between the Cherwell
overflows with death.
The air in Oxford
smells of worm’s wood and garlic,
remnants of the dead.
A pagan casted spells
which bade the willow tree sing
a pagan love song.
November brings cold.
Entangled days bring sorrow
mounted on black wings.
Who damns the pagan?
Even God, or the gods, mourn
when they disappear.