Through the grey autumn fog,
Thought and Memory flew
high above the mossy bog,
and passing windswept yew.

On raven wings of sleek speed
they passed over sharp peaks
and fields and the backs of steeds
that cantered on, a god to seek.

The ghosts of old rise up
and shred like mist in their wake
beneath those who gallop
but above the writhing snake.

Winter grows ever near;
the Sky God wants to hunt,
so the ravens persevere
and the wind bears the brunt.

Soon the dogs will join them,
on the coldest, longest night.
So shall begin the mayhem
that gives the mortals fright.

But for now, the merely fly,
these dark heralds of eve,
through the misty, grey sky
swirled with frostbitten leaves.