The ravens fly high this solstice morn
The woods are bare The snow is deep
We wait for herne to sound his horn
And wake
the demons up from sleep
To celebrate this dreadful sigh
Never reborn the day of light
And the oaks breathe mysterious
mur-
Mursof the horn that sounds its sigh
In the moons face beneath the ocre eye
Like a crescent sword in hour of
fight
And baring unto hell each noble head
Stood in the circle where
None else might tread
The thick air consumed the
night
Ravens pride on battlesounds they fed
In a thousand shimmering nighttime dreams
Druids of old impale me
I gaze into
a fog pregnant with
Seeds of decay and die amongst flesh and bark
As I fell eternally
Never touching the freesing
soil
Like an autumn leaf caught in a cobweb dew
Lost am I until
My newfound wings I spread
Death is at hand and perish will
all but a few