First draft of my new poem: "A barren well"

A barren well

 

In the Middle Ages,

                I once sat by a fire

quite alone

                                for who could help

but produce bad dreams?

 

The grandmother of the devil

took pity on upon me

as I crept into the folds

of her pelted dress.

 

For my tree no longer

produced apples

or crisp lavender leaves,

so I plucked three

golden hairs

from the head of a demon

and squashed the toad

sitting under a stone

hidden in a barren well.