Full stock credits can be found on my deviantART page.

The Washer of the Ford
There is a lonely stream afar in a lone dim land:
It hath white dust for shire it has, white bones bestrew the strand:
The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping sword;
But I, who are a seer am, have seen the whirling hand
Of the Washer of the Ford.

A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and dusk, she stands,
The Washer of the Ford:
She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of her hands.
She counts all the sins of men there, and slays the red-stained horde-
The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword
Of the Washer of the Ford

She stoops and laughs when in the dust she sees a writhing limb:
“Go back into the ford,” she says, “and hither and thither swim;
Then I shall wash you white as snow, and shall take you by the hand,
And slay you here in the silence with this my whirling brand,
And trample you into the dist of this white windless sand”-
This is the laughing word
Of the Washer of the Ford
— Fiona Macleod