The Yule Log: A Poem in Three Fires
I. The Ancient Log
Before the bells, before the hymns,
before the church claimed winter’s rims,
there stood the night—cold, deep, and long,
and people kept the world alive with song.
They felled an oak, a sacred tree,
from forests whispered by the Fae and free,
and dragged it home through frost and storm,
a spine of sunlight, thick and warm.
They crowned it green with holly bright,
with ivy twisting through the night,
with berries red and spices rare—
a promise burned into the winter air.
Runes they carved with careful hands:
protection, luck, the strength of lands;
ancestor names in secret script,
the blessings from the old world’s lips.
And when they lit that mighty wood,
the sparks flew up like prayers they could
not speak aloud in godless fear—
yet every flame said, We endure. We’re here.
The log burned slow for many days,
a guardian of ancient ways;
its embers kept against the cold
the stories that their elders told.
And when at last the fire grew thin,
they saved the charred and blackened end—
a year’s last breath, a charm, a spark,
to shield the home through seasons dark.
II. The Adopted Fire
Then came the cross, the crown, the creed,
a newer faith with fervent speed;
the old was not erased but worn
beneath the rites of Christmas morn.
Priests watched the hearths of northern lands—
the burning logs, the faithful hands—
and saw in flame what they could claim:
a symbol re-shaped in a Christian name.
So Yule became the Christmas tide,
the pagan flame dressed sanctified;
the great log kept its honored place,
but bore a different holy face.
Still evergreen adorned its bark,
still fire lit the solstice dark,
but now they blessed it “in the Son,”
forgetting once the other one—
the Sun that birthed the turning year,
the goddess whispering I am here.
Yet even cloaked in Christian praise,
the old magic lived in quiet ways:
a log that warms, a flame that guides,
a spark the centuries never hide.
For faiths may blend and kingdoms fall,
but winter’s truth outlives them all.
III. The Log We Keep Today
Now in our modern hearths we find
a smaller log, a gentler kind;
yet still we dress it every Yule
in ribbons red and evergreen rule.
We light it for the love we’ve known,
for those we’ve lost, for seeds we've sown;
for warmth that lingers when hopes are thin,
for the courage to begin again.
We honor ancient hands and lore,
the ones who walked this path before,
and feel their breath within the flame—
a soft remembrance calling our name.
The Yule Log now is what we choose:
a light we tend, a fear we lose,
a vow we make with heart and bone
to carry fire when we feel alone.
For what it meant then still is true:
the sun returns, and so do you.
And every ember saved with care
reminds us: We are still the prayer.
So place your log upon the night,
adorn it well, and strike the light;
let ancient voices rise and blend—
the past, the now, the yet-to-mend.
For Yule is not just long ago—
it burns in every hearth’s soft glow.
A promise breathed through smoke and spark:
We hold the light within the dark.
Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.
