by Renee "Mouse" Booke
Winter’s come to claim the land,
With icy breath and frosted hand.
Our crops are gone, our fields are cold,
No birds are singing in the wold.
Drained of light, our flowers die,
Hid by snowflakes from the sky.
But the noble song of Yule has come,
To lift our spirits from the glum.
With icy breath and frosted hand.
Our crops are gone, our fields are cold,
No birds are singing in the wold.
Drained of light, our flowers die,
Hid by snowflakes from the sky.
But the noble song of Yule has come,
To lift our spirits from the glum.
Great Paeter Yule reminds us all,
The golden sun has yet to fall.
His words of hope do Spring inspire,
Whilst we gather by the fire.
Warmed with love, and friendship true,
We celebrate and sip our brew.
Worry not of fights and foes,
It is outside the harsh wind blows.
The wheel will turn, things will go on,
Winter to spring, cygnet to swan.
Recall the person you once were,
As you breathe in incense made of myrrh.
Reflect on conflict deep inside,
Get swept up in the changing tide.
From death comes life, woven as one,
Tis from many colors our world’s spun.
