The dead willow tree

On a hill far, far, away there lives a dead willow tree. And if you visit there’ll be a girl, with long inky hair as deep as the darkest sky. She wears long rags that are elegant and dances in the sowllow wind. She comes every day with a beautiful dismay of light, then leaves when the sky turns to the deepest shade of moonlight. But if you ask for her name she’ll point at a grave, then fade far, far, away as the wind shallowly presses on to a place too far away.