The candle on the window was a-flickering,
Struggling to draw its light from the waning moon,
With the flames, the east wind was playing,
There as her proud vanguard, already waiting.

The crone herself had arrived at last,
With the clouds promising rain hard on her heels,
Those clouds were mimicking the sharp waves of her stormy hair,
And the spirits were all dancing with the thinning veil.

All raised their glasses to welcome the crone,
All revered the dark mother, whose might could never be surpassed.
They all knew that now they could reap what they had sown,
And sit by the hearth as the winds howled past.