The Wild Hunt

The oldest stories forgotten

blood-stained tales told

to young children of old gods

born in new fantasies . . .

A curtain of snow opens,

cold, blue gloom lurks

on frozen wastelands

where starving men ride

horses following baying dogs

chases the prey dodging

snowdrifts beneath snow-laden branches,

evergreens shaking, spilling needles

of ice on panting deer, streaming

blood pounding adrenaline racing

men hunting the old Stag

King, a god who knows

how to die with dogs flying

at hooves stamping powdered ice

beating hearts rushing blood dragging

deer fallen on it’s side, steaming

and panting as snow stains

red with warm blood gurgling

life flowing out until dead

eyes stare at nothing

in the glacial sky

and men carry the carcass,

tongue lolling lifelessly,

in a crude sleigh made

from rough wood, carved with

stone and rain and wind, the sleigh

blackened by time, carrying

a promise

beneath evergreen branches

promising

through the cold, blue gloom

on frozen wastelands

where starving men ride,

bringing hope,

the promised

gift of life opened by death

forgotten memories remembered

in red robes trimmed with white fur,

blood stains upon cold snow,

the old Stag King gives birth

and Santa carries gifts

in a sleigh pulled by reindeer

riding the back of the cold wind

on the longest night of winter

with his gifts

promising

a symbolic sun rises again

carried through the sky

on the longest night of winter

promises

spring riding the back of the cold wind

promising

snow melting under a rising sun,

growing stronger hope day by day,

a fantasy making life bearable

on the longest night of icy winter.

The oldest stories forgotten

blood-stained tales told

to young children of old gods

born into new fantasies . . .