These lines came to me back in 2000 around Samhain when I was wondering what we can, or should, say about this foreboding time of year when the future looks uncertain except for the certainty of winter. I haven’t seen this poem since then. It literally fell out of a folder of old and unfinished poems that I was moving recently. Reading it now almost ten years after writing it—which in many respects were a dark and foreboding time—I wonder about the next decade. That’s all. I’m just wondering. Since it may not be good to wonder too far in advance, I’ll be content to wonder mostly about the coming winter.
The Wild Hunt
Older than the winds, I think,
the Riders on the Wind this night,
this season, high above the forest.
Raiders crazed for food and drink
trample crops and spoil harvest.
In their wild and reckless flight,
do they dream that Other Feast
back where veil and folds are creased?
Thunder howl and lightning shriek.
The dark is rising.
Dare we speak?