It is the year's midnight, the old gods have gone to ground,
Their acolytes burnt, stretched upon the rack, hung, drowned.
For century after century the druid - the knowing of the oak -
Was driven out of place, trapped and yoked.
Walk with me in the freezing mist of a December night - don't be squeamish, don't take fright -
See this land under the moon's milky light:
The yew trees and the oaks in sacred groves alight.
Dew’Featha, O Queen of the Wood, whispers her songs
So deep in the blood, making me long
To dance with the winter, at the end of the rhyme,
And settle in the frost, as church bells chime.
Silence beats tender, in the heart of the wood,
She's swirling her feet and she's hiding her face.
Come close to the secrets from the roots of this place
Planted in souls and played on the flute:
She whispers me stories that won't go away
And returns with the dawn on the druid's new day....