This is a poem about the killing of the sacred White Hart, the Guardian of the Land of Albion and how the spirits of Albion will have their vengeance.
The White Hart and the Wolf
Arianrhod in her celestial castle amidst the stars, sheds fiery tears,
That sudden sear the dark, slipping silently into the void,
Their pale silvern fronds flashing forth, linger for a second,
Upon the velvet face of eternity, then slip swiftly into the night.
That sudden sear the dark, slipping silently into the void,
Their pale silvern fronds flashing forth, linger for a second,
Upon the velvet face of eternity, then slip swiftly into the night.
Across a mourning moon run white hounds of mystery, scudding clouds
That howl in ravening rage around her, for the wild hunt rides,
Furious hail spits forth from red maws, wind snarling squalls,
Wolf packs clashing as a hoar frost bites hard upon the earth.
Slathering snow seeks to hide the shame of men, to mask the crime
As a horned owl in the wild wood, ancient guardian of the gateway,
Seeks sanctuary within the haunted hollow of Hernes old oak,
Where a doorway to the dark side of the moon awaits, ever open.
The lips of a dead man move again at midnight, whispering leaves
Muttering in the sluagh sídhe tongue of the Otherworld,
as the wind twisted rope creaks around the neck of the White Hart,
The gods of night gather in fear around the Northern Crown.
Gather the ancient Sidhe from their sacred vaults of the dead,
Anger growing at this crime, the old gods conspire vengeance,
As between the branches of the scarlet yew, blood drips,
And the sun as black as sackcloth, sets between its icy tines.
The sun slips as a withered ivy leaf, into a womb made barren,
Then fades into the shadows and night rises forth,
As a black wildcat laps at the still steaming blood,
That forms a scralet puddle between the sodden roots.
Then fades into the shadows and night rises forth,
As a black wildcat laps at the still steaming blood,
That forms a scralet puddle between the sodden roots.
Midnight shall see a dark reed dipped in blood, three days hence
When Herne the ristir of the runes carves an ancient curse
Thrice upon the rotted roots of yew, in the shadow side of the sun,
From vengeance sacred groves, a ghost rises from the grave.
When Herne the ristir of the runes carves an ancient curse
Thrice upon the rotted roots of yew, in the shadow side of the sun,
From vengeance sacred groves, a ghost rises from the grave.
The bees are husks in their hives, the honey as bitter as salt,
Whilst in the willows three sisters haunt the sacred glade,
communing with the ghosts of ancient druids, rasping ravens
foretell the wolf with talons, rank with the flesh of dead men.
Whilst in the willows three sisters haunt the sacred glade,
communing with the ghosts of ancient druids, rasping ravens
foretell the wolf with talons, rank with the flesh of dead men.
No comments:
Post a Comment