Over heights in turning winds that swept the hills where gorse and broom, in golden banks, flowered amongst the thorns,
running on long legs he came, flying from the west, in rags, at sun sink hour
His coat tails torn, flapped and flew,
his hair dishevelled knots of midnight hue,
he called the dark of thunder in, he made the lightning sing.
He cleared the earth and fed the grain
with rolling storms, falling in torrential rain, washing dust away
and in his wake, the ravens came
their feathers tossed and ruffled wild, their cawing cries split the sky, calling up deep days and shallow graves.
They circle now above the Tower and cry for Bran’s return, to prophecy a wink in Odin’s eye, a star that heralds dawn
But all is quiet, all is still, this is not the time, this is not the hour. There is no awakening.
We can only wonder here and wait.