Poetry

They Come

The moon is out and with it come

the calls of the Wild Hunt. Do not

stand frightened if you see them. Gwyn ap Nudd

at their head will rally them away

unless you were to sneak into the rings only

those foolish enough not to believe in his forests

enter. I know you won’t, you wouldn’t

be so brazen as to think the roots,

the soil, the trees are for your own use

and pleasure. Listen, can you

hear them? They come.