Monster poem

Woven deeply with mud and rain
The mossy flesh monster howls
Dug from the rotten, tight-wound roots
With axes and picks and trowels
In a halo of steam he reaches and wails
The villagers trip as they scatter
This creature is fast as he cracks his oak limbs
And his sharp flint teeth chatter
The moonlight fails, opaque behind fog
Men become lost and will never be found
As the beast tears holes making freshly scored wounds
In this dirty black, dead-worm-filled ground.