This late December, it rained again,
and despite the morning's first silvery light,
the day could only respond in steely darkness.
But it is the dead of winter, I said, and
the ravens threw their heads back and laughed.
What rot and dearth! Bistered leaves scraunch
and fulch their decay at the edges of things,
nurse the seeds of a future Spring,
its early dawns nurtured there in death,
we just can't sense it yet, not yet.
So we brood in this season of exile
with its gaudy baubles
and glittered faith.
Let the draugr come, we say,
full of black clouds,
from his barrow, and
claws like a kattakyn,
he reeks of carcass,
here to lust-feast upon the bleak
with the birds in their midnight clothes.
A time of thwart, we honour it
in our many rituals of sadness.
A draugr is a revenant. Sometimes referred to as cats (kattakyns) in Old Norse.