Ye old gods of the greenwoods,

Raging forests gone to ground,.

Acolytes burnt, stretched upon the rack, hung,  drowned.

For century after century Druids — those who know the old, oak tree -

Were found only in histories, myths, tales.

But, come, walk with me in this freezing mist

Of a deep-winter's night — 

Don't be squeamish and don’t take fright.

We are kissed by the sky and the moon’s milky light:

Shadowing the yew trees and the wild oaks this night.

See with me the holly and the ivy and the mistletoe in sacred groves.

The living dead Dew’Featha, O Queen of my Wood,

Whispers her songs so deep in our blood.

She dances with winter at the end of a rhyme,

Settles in frost as church bells chime.

Leading us into the heart of the wood's elegance, just

As a Queen should. She's whirling her feet, fluttered my heart,

We’re close to the secrets that grew from the roots and are planted in minds

And played on the flutes, where the spirits of trees tumble and freeze,

As we sing our laments at the end of the day

And whisper the stories that won’t fade away