" The Wild Hunt "
Dark Lady © Brian Froud
Cold wind swirls leaves in spiral patterns,
the lonely call of a heron
echoes from the high cliffs.
A flock of crows returns home.
On my windowsill, calmly
a candle lights the faerie's path.
I let my dogs run free
may the Wild Hunt begin!
I hear them barking in the distance
then silence falls like a heavy curtain,
mist comes up and hides the chase.
Do I see reaching willow branches
or the antlers of the Horned One?
Suddenly a great shadow falls
from the deep clouds near the oak tree.
The Dark Lady appears
on a horse made of storm,
eyes full of night secrets,
silver moon agleam on her brow,
her cloak billowing in otherworldly gusts
quick, hurry up, pour the red wine,
put the dishes outside with moon-white cream,
give them offerings!
The souls of the unborn
cling to the horse's tail,
they howl in the chimney
and whisper in the naked elder bush;
heavy raindrops clatter
against honey-coloured window glass
or do I hear
the footfall of the hunting faeries?
The hearth fire dies
and with it the old year wanes.
The new year begins gently
with spiced wine and cake,
lit by candlelight with dancing shadows.
In the shimmer of the dying flames
softly, gently, a great black wing touches me,
dark, warm laughter fills my ears
and in the first red sun rays
in the mists of the newborn day
a raven rises
from my windowsill
leaving a night-coloured feather
for me to treasure,
a blessing from the Dark Lady.
Exhausted, but joyful
with glowing eyes
my dogs come home,
bloodied jaws bearing
the signs of the hunter.
I sink to my pillow, trembling,
to wait for the coming night
to give myself fully, again and again
to the frenzy of the Wild Hunt. |
