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.]