The Hunter's Lamb

The Hunter's Lamb
A Poem of Samhain
By Muninn's Kiss

On a black altar on All Soul's Night,
The Wounded Serpent makes last call,
He will not go down without a fight,
But he knows not enough will be hid all,
He howls defiance to the coming night,
But the Gates are open, he can hear the call,
The Horned Child pauses, about to strike,
He wants this death, he wants this fight,
A raised high sword, like a lightning flash,
But he's still too slow for he missed the point,
A female figure all dressed in black,
A blood red veil, and a living knife,
With one fell slash, she takes a life,
Who was once her groom, now a sacrifice,
Blue blood runs from the Serpent's throat,
His time is down, it is time to rest,
And with a knife still wet and a heavy heart,
She takes the arm of the fair Horned Child,
She leads him off to be the light,
Through winter's darkness and the coldest night,
And the Serpent rests far beneath the Well,
A fitful slumber of dreams of spring,
He'll awake again, and swim the Well,
A groom once more to a fickle Bride,
But for now in darkness that is but a dream,
With the Horned Child the victor upon the throne,
Through winter's blanket and the barren land,
The Lord of Beasts and the Hunter's Lamb.

A Mortal Wound

A Mortal Wound

A Poem of the Autumn Equinox and Michaelmas
By Muninn's Kiss

The Horned Child rises ever strong,
Like a mighty angel with a sword of steel,
He ventures forth in search of prey,
Looking for a Serpent with feathered wings,
He finds him then, near end of life,
The Winged Serpent weak, while the Child is strong,
He stalks his prey desiring the kill,
He takes his time for the hour is nigh,
In the early snow, he finds the trail,
The autumn's chill soon slows the snake,
The Child approached, so full of faith,
Of how this will end, of what's at stake,
He raises his sword and makes the blow,
A mortal wound that can't be healed,
But the time is short, and has not come,
The Wounded Serpent does get away,
The Child was wrong, the death wasn't sure,
But he trudges one, still on the trail.

A Child of Blood

A Child of Blood

A Poem of Lugh's Day

By Muninn's Kiss

A child is born,

A child is given,

On the feast in fair Lugh's name.

A child of light,

A child of blood,

A Horned Child is given birth.

Well of the Womb,

Water and darkness,

Born into the bright light of day.

Shining fair,

A Hunter born,

Of starlight and mystic earth.

Hunter and hunted,

Herder and rancher,

An animal both wild and free.

Born for the sword,

Born for the bow,

Born to be the Winged Serpent's death.

A child is born,

A child is given,

On the feast in fair Lugh's name.

A child of light,

A child of blood,

A Horned Child is given birth.

From Blessed Womb and Serpent's Seed

From Blessed Womb and Serpent's Seed
A Summer Solstice Poem
By Muninn's Kiss

Summer's heat has come again,
And with it a growing womb.
The union formed of May's young flowers,
Begins to start to show.
The risen lord's seed runs strong,
The laughing queen was ripe.
In summer's heat, her sweat is sweat,
The warmth that forms within.
She smiles sweetly in Solstice sun,
Spring's rain fades away.
The white veil gone, her golden hair,
Darkens to chestnut brown.
New moon's time, a darkened moon,
A bonfire burning high.
The dancers dance, round and round,
A fever burning high.
The Horned King sits close by her side,
His smile as big as hers.
The summer sun it rises bright,
Round like her growing womb.
The moon moves on and starts to grow,
Just like her unborn Child.
Summer's heat has come again,
And with it a growing womb.
The womb will grow to harvest time,
The Child that will be born.
From blessed womb and serpent's seed,
The Mother of all life.

The Willow Moon

The Willow Moon
By Muninn's Kiss

The leaves are coming, slowly budding,
The Aspen catkins are long past gone,
But on each willow branch buds are forming,
Pussy willows stand and face the dawn.

A world reborn, each day grows older,
A thousand branches each reborn,
The willows wait in pools of water,
On banks and marshes, low but full.

The barron winter is long past gone,
New life that started from the thaw,
Each branch, each tip, each growing twig,
The pussy willow cotton has come again.

The Aspen Moon has fled the world,
The Willow full and full of life,
Soon it will go as all moons do,
And the Willow Moon a lost memory.