A Celtic yuletide

'Tis time, the north wind spoke
new trapped fur, hung in the smoke
pelts hard won, soon to be sewn.  
The hunting dogs gnaw at the bones.
 Cinders snapped at the ragged brats  
with shining eyes they chased a bat,
whooping, jumping, crying wild.
The time was nigh.  
The  sacred sickle shone, drawn from its pouch
glints of gold and jewels shone
 and in the Chieftian's hands so strong
 in a voice, that cracked  like thunder.  
Some said "'twas from Thor" born from a maidens blunder.
He gave the air a mighty thwack  
and shouted watch your backs  
the forest waits.
Pipes and bladders chanted out a skirl
as they marched the twisting mile.
Wolves hiding in the depth, bared stained teeth
as the hunger pains bit deep.
The shrouded moon lit the orchard  
for now was time to reap.
Mystics, sprites and elves  foretold by ancient tales
the bower where the magic vine took hold
cluster white berry's in the winters cold.
Laid the feast and soon come bawdy song
the goblet of plenty the knots all strung along
that natures bounty, be so well hung.
Come. come gather the Mistletoe everyone  
and carry it back home.
In its alchemy, secrets of procreation lie
and hang each sprig by the fireside
bring us spring times warmth, in cold winter tide