When The Mad Moon Woke

When the mad moon woke,

so did the wolf in the wood,

singing, beware and hear my howl,

I lure all lost ones to my jowls.

All who wander out tonight,

I end your life in blood and hair,

you who venture near my lair.

When the hunter woke from dead,

axe blows echoed in his head.

The midnight took him by the hand,

to go to the place where he was damned.

Singing, worse I’ve done with knife and gun

than any wolf that leads me

to its kingdom come.

Wandered far from hearthside blaze,

to the cold place where he might

end his days.

When the raven saw the pair,

croaked derision as they stared,

robed the moon in his tattered cloak,

and as they fought he laughed and spoke:

Hunter weak as an ear of corn,

where does he think he’ll be next morn?

Wolf whose pack his turned its back,

will never live out this night’s attack.

When the mad moon woke next time,

bones of man and beast were rimed.

The frost had jewelled them in the night,

entwined and silent, bitter white.

The raven used them for his bed,

a nest of death to rest his head.