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Forgotten Ground Regained

Icy Yule

Brian Wright
Originally published in Withowinde 108, p. 15, Winter, 1997
The sun fares low; short are the days. Harvest is past; plenty will be need before Ing makes ‧ Middle Earth new. Leafless tall ash -- tree of one-eyed god -- oak and birch bare, bleak, ungrowing. The raven flies black ‧ to roost in branches lifeless. Ice now holds bound ‧ broad river and stream. Hail rains hard seed, white helm must fall, undyrne is the dark, death of things growing. The winter runes ‧ are right well-cast, the Green Man grows ‧ great only in memory. Ing the leafy-haired ‧ ice-bonds must break. Yew and holly, the holy mistletoe must come to the hall ‧ where comfort is sought by warriors many idle, men yearning listen, scop telling tales of ‧ terror Summer's lays, fair weather's hard ‧ hilt and sword-play, growing season's ‧ grimmer memory. Now war-time and ‧ Weed-month are dim dreams of glory and ‧ dry sun's wynn. Midwinter make haste, sacrifice made needful that Lord and Lady ‧ of life remakers will bless the earth, bring wheat and fruit, hay for our cattle, heavy womb of Nerthus. Yule arrives at last, for the living meat and drink, queen and princess ‧ pour ale and mead, lordly ladies ‧ lend us their grace, hailing all smilling ‧ every secg and thegn, while the pitcher ‧ passes quicker, shadows flee flames ‧ flickering brightly, greenery and red ‧ glow in hall's corners, but shadows still ‧ hold sway at the table in a dim corner ‧ denied by the living where food and drink ‧ are feasted upon by unstill spirits, souls of ancestors, that the unliving ‧ may new life bring as they feast unseen ‧ on fare provided. But the scop's harp, the sound of glee-wood and lay of longing ‧ for long days returning is all but drowned ‧ by the din of the bells from the Christians' church, cross-haunted dwelling. They grow in number ‧ at the gate of our kingdom, woodwright's worshippers ‧ worrying endlesly that our gods grow ‧ over-great at Yule.
Copyright © Brian Wright 1997
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