Blood Birth
Ed Blundell
We stand on the bare, windswept moorside,
In the circle of standing stones,
Where the priests are chanting the ancient rhymes,
And the cold cuts into our bones.
We are deep in the bleak, dark midwinter,
And the land must be reborn,
By the shedding of a virgin’s blood,
At the blowing of the horn.
And the maiden the priests have chosen,
To fulfil our delivery,
My own betrothed, fair Bronwen
Dearer than life to me.
The horn blows, the priest’s knife is lifted,
I hold my knife by my side,
Ready to sever his scrawny throat,
To rescue my beautiful bride.
But the hand of her father holds me,
I hear his trembling voice say,
The crops need the sun of summer,
There is no other way.
So we stand and watch the one we love,
Watch the life drain out of her eyes,
And a sun as red as the blood she shed,
Burns out of the darkening skies.
We stand on the bare windswept moorside,
In the circle of standing stones,
Where the priests are chanting the ancient rhymes
And the cold cuts into our bones.
