The harvest's gone
as the year grows weary;
the shadows lengthen, changing
as the air grows thin and mirrors the Veil.
Cold blow the winds, in this time between.

The horned moon rises, hangs sharply,
a sickle over the golden world
of bare fields and bare trees.
The air tosses leaves, sighs through branches;
the ancient forest gleams like bone, waiting.

Echoes call; the pack call first
and run, sounding their way through the bramble
wrapped in shifting shadow and ghostly mist.
The air shivers, thickens;
the time comes, drawing Him closer.

Antlers rise in the thorns;
golden eyes gleam as the wolves howl welcome.
Oak trembles as hooves clatter,
and the horn cries, shattering the dying world's silence.
He rides.

The Hunter's Moon is risen;
the Hunt rides, parting the Veil
with fang and claw, blade and bone.
Blood gleams and the forest sings, feral,
as the Hunter runs his course.

The sky lightens
as the moon grows weary;
the coward and the cruel gone to the Hunt
as He descends again, underground, baying fading into the dawn.
The pale mist burns away, scouring the earth clean.

The harvest's taken.
polished antler and bone gleam on the forest floor.
A sacrifice to the Hunter, a sacrifice to the Hunt;
a sacrifice to the animal in all of us.
Now he guards Her cooling heart, weeping as She sleeps.