by Aonghus

The hag's dragon stirs
its cold belly scours the land
the raven claws a naked perch
Danu closes withered hand

The sun travels a low path
and the hearths burn well and warm
the roof is strongly thatched
to weather winters storm

The land is white in death
but this death, Life
for none could know times plenty
without this seasons strife

So take heart my clansmen
our fate is less than dire
for winter must like summer end
till then - tend well your fire