Image courtesy of Dominik Kempf at Unsplash
Now comes the time of Midwinter’s Hag,when holy sun hides her face, night rules
longest, and stars cut the open sky.
Now comes the time of the Hoarfrost Maid,when mountains howl and the trees
stand as bare-boned sentinels.
Now comes the time of Dame Evergreen,who braves hungry snow and cunning ice,
basket of coal and bright torch in hand.
In cloak of red, she walks. Her loyalpage, wrapped deep in furs of wolf and bear,
knows safety in her steps. Basket
of bread and basket of mead held close, hefollows his Dame through the Yuletide night.
Town to town, village to village, door
to door they walk, offering fireto the cold, light to the lost, food
to the hungry. Now comes the forest
of Midwinter’s Hag. Upon her great whitebear she rides, balding and brittle-boned.
“Food, drink,” the Hag says, voice the creak
of frozen branches. “I hunger, I thirst.”Red of cloak, Dame Evergreen offers
bread and mead, piece by piece, sip by sip,
until the Hag has filled her gapingbelly, and both baskets hang empty
from the page’s trembling hands. Silent,
fiercely grinning, Midwinter’s Hag ridesinto Yuletide’s deepest night. On they
walk, town to town, village to village,
door to door. Now comes the high mountainof the Hoarfrost Maid. Upon her great
black wolf she rides, hunched and knife-eyed.
“Food, drink,” the Maid says, voice the crash of stone.“I hunger, I thirst.” Dame Evergreen,
red-cloaked, offers bread and mead, piece by
piece, sip by sip, until the HoarfrostMaid’s ravenous belly is full, and
the twin baskets hang hollow from the
page’s shaking hands. Laughing, with aferal smile, the Hoarfrost Maid rides
into Yuletide’s darkest night. On they
walk, town to town, village to village,door to door, Dame Evergreen’s bright torch
lighting their way. As the longest night
yields to the day, and holy sun atlast shows her shining face, Dame and page
set aside torch and coal, cloak of red
and coat of fur, baskets now emptytrue. In beds of yew and pine they seek
their short rest. Soon will come the time
to sew the seeds, build the nests, and digthe burrows. Soon will come the time when
the Hoarfrost Maid’s voice of stone becomes
the roar of rain-fed mountain streams. Soon willcome the time when the frozen-forest
voice of Midwinter’s Hag becomes
the pulse of rich tree sap. The way will bemade. Soon the time when Springtide’s Child
and the Vernal Queen waken the world.
[Originally published in Faerie Magazine #37 (Winter 2016). Reprinted in Dame Evergreen, and Other Poems of Myth, Magic, and Madness (Sycorax Press).]
[Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of the Pagan literary ezine, Eternal Haunted Summer. A complete list of her published works can be found there.]
