When the year circles     and Yule is nigh,
We meet in murk      for Mothers’ Night,
Our offerings honouring      ancestresses prior.
Wolves are wailing     in the wild moorland
As we slaughter swine    at the sacred place,
Their blood bathing      the blessing stone;
May fertile Frig      favour our sacrifice,
And make mothers      of our maiden daughters.
Night is nascent    with new creation,
Her widened womb    waiting to engender
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.]