A white mask crowned in antlers tall,
with deep black deathly eyes that seek
each night to spy afar their prey
in flight, cold with steaming breath;
mist draws close, a deathly curtain fall,
while hooves strike hard frosted earth
that winter froze again as stone or ice
to crack under steed and hound;
a steel chain that rattles in herald,
sets fear in birds and cattle and tells
that Herne is near and hungers on
as baying old Annwn’s hounds run.
Now fly and hide;
for moonlight shines and crows fall quiet,
in patience wait the charge of fear,
the bloodshed, screams and death before the oak.
Now fly and hide;
for light is gone this mortal night,
when winds are still with a world’s breath held,
this nightmare, havoc and crimes before the oak.
Herne’s old oak that sleeps and wakes;
its gnarled barren trunk twists and turns
its tangled spindly roots and grips the earth
that old Herne does dance upon―
Herne’s old mask, and to behold!
Of soulless hollow bone dried by death
and sprouting antlers sharp as swords,
that old Herne does toss his head―
Herne’s old hunt, a screaming dread;
for the Other’s icy quiet upset
so loud with wailing fear of tired souls
that old Herne does laugh without mirth.
Now fly and hide;
for moonlight shines and crows fall quiet,
in patience wait the charge of fear,
the bloodshed, screams and death before the oak.
Now fly and hide;
for light is gone this mortal night,
when winds are still with a world’s breath held,
this nightmare, havoc and crimes before the oak.
Now fly and hide;
for the Hunt is come.