Wild hunt
poem
November is the world sunk in
Itself, light and dark are weighed
Uncertainly. Eighteen
Dark horsemen, dead and unafraid
Of what pursued them, rode the hills last night
While the hounds of Odin bayed,
Rejoicing in the wind.
And all their clamour's made
Still, a distant wail, when snow
Descends, settles, binds — a kindness laid
Against the strangest month.
This poem was partly inspired by these photos James Hart shared last week.