Mothers’ Night

When the year gyres     and Yule is nigh,
We meet in murk      for Mothers’ Night,
Our offerings honouring      ancestresses past.
Wolves wail     in the wild heath
As we slaughter swine    at the sacred place,
Their blood bathing      the blessing stone;
May fertile Freeya      favour our gifts,
And make more      mothers of our daughters.
Night is nascent    with new life,
Her widened womb    waiting to give birth
To the dazzling dawn,      the day of wonder,
When Sunne sings,      sundered from her bonds.

[Adam Bolivar is a poet of dark fantasy, a weird fiction writer, and a playwright for marionettes. He is the author of The Lay of Old Hex (Hippocampus Press), The Ettinfell of Beacon Hill (Jackanapes Press), and the forthcoming Ballads for the Witching Hour (Hippocampus Press). https://adambolivar.com.]