It is the year's midnight, the old gods have gone to ground,
Their acolytes burnt, stretched upon the rack, hung, drowned...
For century after century the druid - the knowing of the oak -
Was driven out of place, trapped and yoked into subservience
Come! walk with me in the freezing mist of a November night -
Don't be squeamish, don't take fright -
See this land under the moon's milky light:
The yew trees and the oaks in sacred groves alight.
Dew’Featha, O Queen of the Wood, whispers songs
That lie so deep in the blood, making me long
To dance with the maiden, at the end of the rhyme,
And settle in the frost, as no church bells chime.
Silence beats tender, in the heart of the wood,
She's swirling her feet and she's hiding her heart. 
Come close to the secret at the root of this place
Planted in souls and played clear on the flute:
She whispers me stories that won't fade away
Returns with the dawn on this druid's new day.