Blood of the Moon

When the trees grow bare,
in the frost chilled air,
and the shadow’s long and cold;
kindle the night,
with a season’s light,
and a melody of old.
To dance across a field of snow,
the wheel of stars-a-turning;
when the season dims, gather friends,
and keep the fire burning.
For the night wouldn’t feel so cold,
if we all had a flame to hold;
the fire never burned so bright,
as the darkest hour on a solstice night.

When the frosty breeze,
through the naked trees
comes whistling through this land;
with the Holly and the Mistletoe,
all gathered in our hands.
Tending to the midnight fire
with the moon overhead,
the dragon of the seasons,
has another skin to shed.
With hair as dark as ravens
and blood red lips on a field snow white,
with silvery fingertips of light,
she plays her song on the threads of time.

The blood of the moon,
a river through time,
as scarlet as the autumn leaves;
a winter’s sleep
in a cauldron deep,
dreaming of what’s to be.
Oh mother Hel,
we gather by your well
and give thanks
for the waters you bring;
when the blood of the moon
upon the fields,
rises to live again.