Hunching down beneath a willow
I use my finger to stir a pool of stars
Unquiet memories give chase
To the white hart that bounds out of the forest
Worn etchings sigh
On the loose cairns toppled on the black heath
Blackthorn
Pricking
Studding the night with rumors of forgetfulness
But the rags are tied above clootie wells
Faded-color prayers tattered by the winds that swell
Unchecked
Across the browning moors

Untabulated by me the hours
Spent unsullying the tunics of heroes
Washer at the ford
Unseen
Between the lanes of megaliths
I stand, compass-led
By the welcoming light of your paired bale-fires
Grievances of years past
Sizzle like mutton fat roasted upon a spit
Sun and moon orbs flit beneath my eyelids
Spinning pale enchantments
Foretelling storms
Foretelling storms
With arms upraised to hush the growing reverie
Woven by slumbering stones
I trod the hoary heather beds
Clad with dying elk’s moans
Slumped sigh of earth-kissing antlers
As the spirit flees the bones

Blódmonath
I grin and cackle
Among the parched fields
Blood still trickles
Lapped up by the tongue of moonless musing
In green robes
Amidst dazed worlds
Mist-mantled and slow
I stride along the paths carved out by men
Foretelling storms, you ken
Foretelling storms, you ken
Slitted cloud-bellies pour forth their tears
Harsh caw of swooping rook compounds the meaning
As I pull back my hood and start the keening

Chicago native Anna Applegator, M.A., is a Slavic Heathen poet whose consciousness has been informed by a lifelong love of studying comparative religions, world mythology, philosophy, and poetry from the Renaissance to the age of Romanticism. Anna holds an M.A. in English Literature from Loyola University Chicago. When she isn’t working as a wordslinger-for-hire in healthcare communications, she can be found adoring the pockets of phantasmagoria she finds lurking beyond the veil of the mundane. She hosts themed Poe parties each year on October 7.