At the edge of the longest day,
when the sun lingers golden in the sky,
two brothers meet at the heart of the greenwood.
Though they are equal in power,
they are opposite in fate.
The Oak King, crowned in leaves and light,
strong from his long rule since Yule,
raises his blade of summer fire.
The Holly King, cloaked in dusk and thorns,
meets him with iron eyes and a frost-edged sword.
They clash beneath the solstice sun—
sparks flying, leaves torn, thunder rolling in oak branches.
Though the Oak King strikes true and fierce,
he does not leave the battle unscathed.
Blood from both kings soaks into the soil.
The forest holds its breath.
The Oak King stands victorious,
but his breath is shallow,
his limbs heavy with knowing:
the light has reached its peak,
and now, even in triumph, it will fade.
Where his blood touches the earth,
a golden flower springs up.
It is small, star-like, and bright as the noonday sun.
St. John’s wort, they name it.
A gift from the Earth Mother,
born of fire and sacrifice.
Its yellow blooms guard against shadow,
its crimson oil soothes the soul’s sorrow.
It carries the Oak King’s strength,
his warmth and courage,
to guide the people through the turning.
The Holly King retreats to the hollows,
gathering frost and quiet power.
His time will come again.
But for now,
the sun still shines,
and the golden herb glows on hillsides and hedgerows,
a midsummer miracle,
a light for the dark to come.
