YULE STORM
A storm hath risen . . .
blowing ghosts from their prison
like sand through a sieve.
They shall all dance together
as the bells ring forever
here on all hollows eve.
The wild hunt commeth
with a black horse’s whinny.
Howl the hounds in the hills,
sound great the horn of plenty.
These are the days of friends, foe’s, and feasts,
when pilgrims and braves,
witches and naves,
all dine till the sun shows her face in the East.
The Halls, shall be decked to the uppermost gables,
Fools on their pedestals.
Kings in their stables.
Larders or swelling
From Gaia’s dark dwelling
Come all far and near
See the wheels that are spinning
tis the end
the beginning
tis the close of the year.