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.