In a village in South Norfolk,
Situated on the Broads,
There is an ancient hawthorn
With misshapen gnarled boughs.
She is the Witch of Hethel,
Adorned with mistletoe,
In spring with haws and flowers,
In winter trimmed with snow.
A thirteenth century boundary tree,
Her fragrance is not sweet:
Herbal larder for the witches
And the peasants’ place to meet.
A doorway to the Otherworld,
A potent lover’s charm;
Take shelter under the hawthorn,
It will keep you safe from harm.
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