The little white house,
set in the middle of a vast prairie.
Quaint picket fence.
Decking housing a comfortable rocking chair.
Pots of herbaceous plants.
Pretty purple blooms and juicy black berries.
She tends her precious plants.
Lovingly watering them and deadheading
the perished flowers.
Secateurs tinged with blood.
She would make tea from the leaves,
for unwanted visitors.
Widow Snedeker didn’t like guests.
Many a lost soul had met their end here.
Their final destination.
Resting in pieces beneath the house.
The widow’s frail frame,
A sweet, elderly lady,
with a dangerous thirst for blood and,
an inherent disgust for visitors.
Not a lot is known about our poet. A rather secretive soul, residing in Colchester, Essex.
Perhaps her poetry will tell you more about her than any bio ever could.
She has a love for the macabre, gothic, Victoriana, erotica and death.
Rather gentle, rather shy, avid metal fan.
Need she say more?
For more of Leigh's poetry, find her at: