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A Yule Poem
This is the night of darkness;
this is the night of cold.
This is the night of short light
when gods themselves grow old.
This is the night the ice worm
below the soil lays hold.
This is the night his grasp tight
grips earth, and hearth, and soul.
But on this night the fire bright
is set alight again.
And knowing his chill rule is doomed
the worm curses all men.
He never sees the starlight,
he never sees the sun;
But still he knows what we ignite
spells all his will undone.
He loathes the light of hearthfire,
He loathes the flame of doom.
His fear is all we hold so dear
for spring will him entomb.
And so he grips yet tighter
in hope the earth will freeze
and so it will, for two months still
but then his hold will ease.
And on this eve we toast the worm
whose death brings frith and joy;
and light the fire to be his pyre
and winter to destroy.
© Alexa Duir 2003
Image: Stained Glass Art, © Analemma McKee Burrows, used with permission