Snow on the far heights spills over
their shoulders, drops down to feed
deep streams crossing wide moorland,

where wind-blown trees whisper, overtopping
tangles of grass, and outcrops of stone
break through bramble and barren thorn.

Easily over the pathless land
she comes, on a waning moon, clasping
a grey cloak at her white throat.

Raven sits on a branch above
shapeless stone, stropping his beak;
he and she are akin, a merry meeting.

‘Well-met, brother – whence are you come
with your beak all ****** from breaking your fast?
What word do you bring from the world of men?’

He turns his bright eye towards her:
‘Battle is joined in the world below,
from all peoples men are mustered,

enough for us all, even the eagles,
nor need we vie with the grey wolf;
the feast is spread to feed us all.

Blow up your fire, sister, boil your cauldron;
a heavy harvest will fill your hall.’
She smiles, and makes for the autumn woods

where, below the moor, the turning trees
dwindle in dusk as their bright burden
burns away.