Towards the year's midnight
The old gods of the greensward and forests have gone to ground.
Their acolytes burnt, stretched upon the rack, hung, drowned
For century after century until now the druid –in the knowing of the oak –
Is found only in histories, myths and, tales until you walk in the freezing mist
Of a late November night – don’t get squeamish, don’t take fright –
See the land under the moon’s milky light: the yew trees and the oaks
And the holly and the ivy and the mistletoe in sacred groves, the living dead.
Dew’Featha, O Queen of my Wood whispers her songs so deep in my blood.
Dances with winter at the end of a rhyme, settles in frost as church bells chime
She’s leading me into the heart of the wood, moving with elegance,
As a true witch should. She's swirling her feet and echoing, echoing a true heart’s beat.
We’re close to the secrets that grow from the roots, planted in minds and played on a lute.
Yes. Played on the flutes, while the spirits of trees pollinate bees,
Sing laments for the end of the day, whispering stories that don’t go away.