Obsidian vines strangle the last light of day.
Hungry fingers stretch across the sky devouring dying embers.
Stars, phantasms of ancient fire, bear witness to the battle below.
A wooden throne cradles the dying king.
He lost the battle during this longest night.
His blood saps into fallow acre.
Nurturing the frozen soil so it may come to life once more.
Humans have arrived to celebrate the kings.
Slowly the warmth of their balefires brightens the night.
Sounds of song soothe the dying king’s soul,
As his contenter lifts the sword unsheated.
And thus, blood, fire, song and sword bring forth the reborn sun.
Category: The 12 Nights Collection
The Raunacht Collection a collection of 12 poems reflecting the in-between time, the 12 nights, the time of the wild hunt. Reminiscence and mystical themes
The Alb
Raunacht Collection: Day 12
Joined a local writing group and took this one for feedback because I never liked how it turned out so will share a new version this year for Raunacht. (Nov/24)
A variation of Johann Heinrich Füsli (aka Henry Fuseli)’s painting “The Nightmare”
Gran:
She has the Kuppelchen.
The old women in the village always said.
Mum:
It’s like a brownie.
Gran:
She’s always left remains of food and drink.
Always,
without fail.
Gran:
Yeah they helped us strip feathers for down.
The old women.
Made the rounds from farm to farm.
Mind.
Gran muses.
Your granddad always had to strip the first three feathers.
Me:
How come?
Gran:
Well, I am not sure.
It’s supposed to stop the bedding from compressing.
Mum:
Yes, it’s to keep the bedding fluffy.
Me:
Strange, there is something missing.
A bit of research later.
Alp.
Old Germanic for evil spirit.
Alptraum = Nightmare.
A creature who sits on peoples’ chests.
During the night.
Also called Alpdruecken—Alp Pressure.
Me:
Listen to this it has nothing to do with the bedding.
Inherent magic of the first male.
The most senior male.
The protector.
Stops the Alp from entering the home.
Mum:
Ha isn’t this curious?
Yes.
Rituals remain.
Unbeknownst the Why.
Known only the urge.
The urge to follow the motions.
Explanations for rituals are tip-exed memories.
Yet.
Yet, the magic can’t be erased.
Scratch the white ink gently.
Until the origins emerge.
(reworked 15/02/2025)
A blustering solstice
Raunacht Collection: Day 11
A violent twang ripped us from a restless sleep.
The death cry of Elder Elm, like a Banshee’s shriek,
perforated the swagger of a rampageous winter storm.
We grieve for Elder Elm, awaiting daylight to survey the harm.
Before Thunder
Raunacht Collection: Day 10
I was wearing a Panama hat sometimes a tropical hat,
khaki pants, or in the realm of reality they were nylon trousers my mom made.
That didn’t deter the explorer though, turning over large stones to watch all the creepy crawlies.
Krabbeltierchen in German scatter as the unexpected sunlight hits their shadowy world.
The clay of the river plain, cracked skin from the summer heat, noon flowers pastel lilac
somewhat limp amidst the dust. Longing for the thunderstorm brewing on the horizon,
as they hang onto life thirsting.
I feel the heat burning my neck; better watch it! Lest I get another sunburn and gran needs to administer the cooling gel.
I watch the wall of anthracite cotton candy threatening the silent summer day.
Only the crickets have the energy to make noise.
The skylarks rest after this morning’s efforts.
This is the moment before lightning bolts rip through the sky, and pelt the gentle flowers into submission;
before the rain sinks into the thirsty ground bringing life once more.
On the other side of Midnight
Raunacht Collection: Day 09
Time slowly drips into the new year.
Just another day laden with too much expectation.
Only last night we cheered the forward motion of the clock,
and wished one another well–for once
And took stock of time and people left behind,
on the other side of midnight.
Winter Doldrums
Raunacht Collection: Day 08
Winter doldrums are days of a permanent grey. The sun remains unseen, and light barely breaks through the dirty curtains.
Hark! Sarnies to the rescue and a cuppa.
Coffee. Black. Strong. Fragrant.
You may have tea.
Small blessings are the strongest anchors of joy.
Each creating a colourful dot on my fairy light string.
Cold drops play a splattering song,
on the wet street and the hood of my coat.
I shuffle along to the 12 bar blues, somewhere water is leaking into my boots,
and the world around me is in brown and grey hues.
Winter doldrums are a never ending grey.
Where the day blends into the night and the nights won’t become day.
So I bring out the candles, light fire, fairy lights, books, chocolate and journals are all my favourite things.
I meander between stories and rhyme, as I wrap my blanket tightly.
Warm beeswax candles shine.
Shush now dear reader, just pause and listen.
Because in the right light even dull dirty grey rain drops with glisten.
A Grey December Day
Raunacht Collection: Day 07
One of those nearsighted days,
During which I pull the grey light around me.
A blanket of distortion.
There is no discernable horizon,
Just a gradual thickening of dreariness,
Until even the blurred silhouettes of trees disappear into the nothing of this day.
Time is on hold.
Indeed the proud buzzards sit on the ground.
Watching mole-holes, soaked feathers drooping, talons dulled by mud.
I study hula hoop waves dancing across mawkit puddles.
Until the rain grows too heavy,
And recoil destroys the circular serenity.
Dullness has piled into darkness now.
I switch on the light.
And all I see is the reflection of me in the French windows.
It’s just so damn flat
Raunacht Collection: Day 06
Flat was my main complaint.
Everything is just so flat.
No mountains, not even hills,
At most we have some rolling fields.
There is no ocean either.
No seaside, beach or other feature.
A river half an hour walk across the road.
At least in our cellar lives a toad.
-Or three
And summers are hot.
And winters have snow.
If only there would be some hills to show.
Witchgrass Acre
Raunacht Collection: Day 05
Witchgrass Acre
An Ice age afterthought
Rocks salt the soil
witchgrass sprouts from tiny crevasses
Mammoth teeth strewn below ground
Teeth, geodes, rocks and sand
Blanketed by brittle clay
Stone age pottery brought to the surface by autumn tilling
Once I even found a bronze age brooch
Witchgrass Acre
Ancient land
A meandering river bed
An old side arm
Indentation across the Western end of the farm
This is where the floods go first
Witchgrass Acre
The ancient creeds are still walking along paths forgotten
Overlaid realities
Sometimes you can see their shadow
Paths come and go
Medicinal plants everywhere
Holler* and Rowan protect the parameters
Witchgrass Acre grows powerful women
*Holler is an old fashioned word for Elder Tree in German
Disappearing pathways
Raunacht Collection: Day 4
Paths meander between realities
Today I walk along
Amongst the trees
Woodpecker greeting me with her staccato efforts
Tomorrow you are not there
You that path branching off at this tree
Tomorrow I will pass the tree and you won’t be waiting
Just to re-appear another time
And so I walk in between the here and now
Along the tree lined ribbon
Guided by the drum of a beak
Poetry by Nathalie 