Remembrance: A Meditation

3000 BC at the Dolmen

The tribe can rest now, and our stone temple is complete. Into the side chambers, the tribal priests will place the grave goods - amulets, bracelets, and some of the bones of the ancestors. The fires will burn brightly down the passage, and we will chant the sacred songs, and the past will be very close tonight. 

The air is thin between this world and the next, and we build this to remember the past, our ancestors who will always be with us, and as long as stone will endure, may not be forgotten. Most are buried in earthen graves, but these bones are a token, a sign for the tribe, and it is enough. 

At the turning of the sun, at the matching of the night and day, and especially at the cross quarter day when the nights are growing long, we shall see the patterns in the stars, and know that it is time. We shall gather with the shades all who have gone before, and all their hopes shall be our hopes, and we shall pray for a good harvest and a mild winter. The fires will burn bright, and we shall remember them.

11th November 1918, In the Trenches

Today, we are told, sees an end to the mud, all the cold and wet, the noise of the guns, and the shells pounding down. Too late for some of my friends. And we are all wounded now, one way or another, with scars in our memories, which will remain with us until the day we die.

Now all we can do is to hope for a better world. We have been promised a land fit for heroes. It seems like only yesterday, but another world, a bright and sunny day, in which we marched up and down the parade ground. The band played a rousing marching song, and we felt sure we would find victory; we were full of thoughts of valour and brave deeds. 

Little did we know the despair and misery that would be our lot; the lice, the trench foot, the iron rations, and the endless mud and rain. This was, until today, our lot, for those of us lucky enough to survive, and those not driven mad by the endless noise of guns.

And when we are old, we will look back and remember those Islanders who died here, in a foreign field, friends and comrades in arms, taken in their youth, never to grow old, as we who are left grow old.

But our hopes are now for a brave new world, fresh shoots of spring, and families to build in a time of peace. Will there be that world so promised by the politicians? Or will we be forgotten, as some have said, only remembered on ceremonial occasions once a year, standing at cenotaphs across the land, but forgotten for the rest of the time?

Will we grow old, struggling to make ends meet, fretting over food and warmth, while those we fought for, and their descendants, stand and make fine speeches, and enjoy acclaim and wealth? Will we decline into an old age in which we again face hardship, frugal rations, and the biting cold of wintertime? Who will really remember us?

1944, The Normandy Beaches

We landed on Normandy to the sound of machine gun fire, and shells from the German positions. The carnage was dreadful, and I saw many of my mates fall down beneath as they struggled up the beaches. But now, the day is over, and we have won a victory, and taken a beachhead, and we move inland tomorrow. The great attack is over, and victory is in our sights. A time to take stock, and reflect of future hopes, if any of us come out of this alive.

One thing is certain, we will not be cheated like our grandfathers and fathers were, with glib promises of a land fit for heroes. Where there is the chance, we will take it, and we will vote for change. It is time for change. People are dying here, and they are dying so that all those of use lucky enough to survive will have hope. Well, you can't have that if all those who didn't fight are in charge, in the same old way.

The mood is that we can do this; we will look forward not to just let the politicians do it, but to elect our own people. The English soldiers are already talking of Attlee and Labour. Churchill may have won the war, but when war is past, we want people looking forward, to changes, to free health for all, housing, a decent pension, social security, and a fairer society.

We want a world built from the ranks of the ordinary soldier, the common man. If we are to remember our fallen comrades, we shall pay tribute to them in this way, by changing the world. I don't know if there is another world, like the padre says, but I know we don't want pie in the sky, but fair shares for all in this world. How much we build a better world, I do not know, but this will be our memorial to the dead; our monument to their lives. In this time of hope, we shall look back and not forget that ordinary folk paid with their life's blood for our future. Yes, we shall build a better world. And we shall remember them.

1972, Northern Ireland

I would not have thought our Islanders could be caught up in this conflict, but they have. I am here as a representative of the funeral directors to convey, with dignity and respect, the remains of a poor lad shot and killed here last month. To the rest of the world, the conflict here must seem a very private little war, but it still has the power to destroy lives.

I remember my grandfather taking part in the Great War, the war to end all wars. Only it was not, because then there was the Second World War, in which my father fought. Warfare has become less global, but smaller private wars continue, many still die, and so often those fighting have lost sight of all reason why the war began; hatreds become inbred, and even those who are brought in to keep the peace get caught up in the madness.

Now there will be a new name on the Cenotaph; a new date, and a new war, in which we remember the dead.

600 AD, A Remote Bay in the Island

We landed today in our small boats. This is an empty bay, with rocks at either side, and no signs of habitation; here we can settle and begin our small community. The Lord gave us a strong wind, and blew us onto the beaches, bringing us safely through the storm, in his great mercy. Under the shadow of his wings, we came safely into harbour. Blessed be his name.

Once we have settled, we will seek out those who live here, and trade with them, for we have many skilled artisans, skilled in working with metal and wood. We have scribes who can read and write, and who can bring the Lord's word of peace and joy to the people who live in this land. 

For in our travels, across the channel dividing our lands from these southern regions, we have come across much sorrow, tribal laws which are not just, where the widow and the orphan and the stranger are forgotten. We shall teach these peoples to know the justice of the Lord, and his mercy on us all. For we are all strangers in a strange land.

There is wood here, and we can fashion a shelter for worship, in which we can pray for the peoples of this Island. We shall gather the names of their ancestors, and the names of the living, and all their songs and stories, and we shall take care that nothing is lost that the Lord has entrusted to us. We shall light our candles, break bread, and we shall remember them.

Christmas Tales

Near Corbière, 3000 BC

It is dark, and cold, and we walk to the hilltop together. A sharp, biting wind cuts me like a knife. Now is the time, when the year has grown cold, for us to come together, and celebrate the sun return.

We are at the stone table now, overlooking the bay below. Waves glisten, reflecting the moonlight as they break upon the rocks below. The priest is ready, the earthen bowls around the table ablaze with a thick smoky flame, and my father, as an elder of our tribe, places the lamb, feet firmly bound, upon the table.

Last month was the blood month, the time of slaying, when the sheep and lambs are culled for the winter. There is barely enough food for the tribe in these harsh winters, and that month, on the cusp of winter, is the time to kill some of the flock. I have seen these dried, and salted, and kept to sustain us through the worst months to come.

But one lamb is held back, and it is this lamb that the priest will sacrifice today. He will take the sacred knife, and ask the gods for mercy, and that the sun will return again. Then we will feast, in dawn's grey light, and have warmth in our bellies, a token of the ending of the shortening days, and the returning of the light.

Now it is my time, my part as first-born, and I step forward, and chant the words I have been taught by my father, and before him, his father, and so, for many generations in the mists of time, back to the great word that was spoken by the gods themselves.

Dark the night falls,
A canopy over the land
Cold death breaks stone walls
Reaches out her bony hand

Let us here offer her a life
A word and a sacrifice made
Signs of hope, of ending strife
The ransom has been paid

Sunlight is reborn this day
Light that lightens the dark
This is our truth, our way
A kindling of the spark

Then the whole tribe joins in the chant,

Eat in night, long for light
Let it be, we pray it might.

And now the priest steps forward, tall and grey, and there is silence. All our fears are gone, all our hopes risen high, and this will be a time of joy.

1852, La Rocque

The wind is rising, and it is not yet dawn, but we must depart, even if a tempest threatens. The boat is ready, and we are dressed in our oilskins, ready to brave the tidal flow. The rain falls in a torrent, a curtain of water drenches us, but we need the fish.

My wife has mended my nets, and my thoughts turn to her, sitting peacefully beside the fire in our small cottage, knitting steadily to help our livelihood. In a few hours, the farmers will be taking their cows to the fields, and the bell will toll at the new chapel for morning prayer. Let them pray for those in peril on the sea, and those weaving in and out of these treacherous rocks.

Now we are past the witch's rock, and the strange moaning, as the wind whistles through the trees. On our return, the thirteenth fish must be given up to the seas around this point, a sacrifice to the spirits of air and water, that we may have safe passage home.

Christmas approaches, and I think of my own newborn, suckling milk at my wife's breast, unaware of the hardship that is our lot, of the perils that beset a fisherman. Will my son follow in my path, and hear the cry of the lone gull across the sea, the song of the waves upon the rocks, and know the tossing of the boat in life's stormy sea?

On shore, the beacon's light is lit to guide us home, even through the gales, even when our sight is lost in spray and storm, so that we might come to a safe harbour once again, and thank God for safe haven and warm hearth. Landfall is a time of joy, and on Christmas we shall leave our nets, and give thanks to the Lord who called fishermen to follow him.

Around the Middle of the 20th Century, The Institute
It does no good to hide in a corner weeping, but I can't help it. Today was a day of Christmas cheer, and visitors came to see us, and the Warden and his assistants were beaming, full of false smiles, showing how kind they were to us. But after the last visitors left, the smiles faded as fast as night fell, and all the freedom, the laxity was gone, and woe betide any boy who did not follow their iron rule of discipline.

But we are boys, and we cannot behave like mindless machines. Of course we have our fun, we play games, we are mischievous on occasion, because we forget. The mind blots out the pain, the beatings, and for some, much worse. They are the ones taken away to the other part of the building, and we hear the odd cries, even from as far as that, and they return, tight lipped, biting back the tears, and mute, shocked into silence by whatever brutality has been inflicted on them. I am lucky. I only got a flogging for cheeking the assistants. That is getting off lightly. Some return with scars, and others with scarring inside, deep wounds that do not heal easily, if at all. I fear their fate, and I try to be good, but I am only a small boy, and it is very hard to do so all the time. Sometimes one wants to have fun, to laugh, to joke and play freely. I forget, and take my punishment.

This is the darkest night, the shortest day, but for many here, midnight never ends, and they that love the darkness ply their cruel deeds. I was hungry, I was thirsty, I was naked, I was a stranger, and I was imprisoned in this institute, and where were the visitors then? When did they see me hungry and feed me, thirsty and give me drink, naked and cloth me, a stranger and welcomed me, and imprisoned and set free? I pray that one day my tale will be told, and the truth will blaze forth like the light of the world, and justice will again be found in the courts, and all righteous people will support it.

1943, A Hidden Room in a House, St Helier

It is time, the special time of year, and more than ever, I pray for light. The curfew is in place, and it is a dark time that we live in. I cannot even go out by light, because the shadow of a great evil has fallen upon this Island. And yet I am kept safe by those who keep alive a flame of hope, who hide me at great cost to themselves, and go without to feed me; even in their hardship, they give to those in greater need.

I dream of the beach, and the sun, and the waves upon the shore, of the laughter of children, the holidaymakers lazing their days away, sprawled out, and enjoying the balmy sun. The fresh breeze, the cool of the water on a hot day as I splashed around with my friends, such, such were the joys, but now just memories, thoughts to hold on to, that I may one day be free again to walk down to the coast, and look across the bay to the yachts, fleet in the summer breezes as they glide across the blue water. Now, I am told the beaches are cold, forbidding places, full of mines and barbed wire, and only fisherman are permitted to go out upon the sea, while the ever seeing, watchful eye of the gunner looks over his domain.

I take out my single candle, saved each year, lit only for a few precious minutes each day, and I take the makeshift tinder box, and strike the flint upon the firesteel. The sparks catch on the charcloth, which glows warmly, and I ignite the wooden splint, and take light the candle from its taper, taking care to extinguish the box for days to come.

This is my celebration of the kindling of the lights, my festival of lights, my Hanukkah. And I softly sing the hymn Ma'oz Tzur, which tells of divine salvation, and events of persecution of our peoples, and I remember how Maccabees fought so all of us could be free, and pray that others will fight the cause of justice now, and free us from this oppression, in which this Island is occupied. And in a low voice, I sing the psalms for here our people have known of sorrows and joys, and the generations past speak to us this day. And now I blow out the candle, and the first day has passed, and I wish the light of the Lord will come again, with justice flowing like a river, to bring peace upon this blighted earth.

2014, A Church on Christmas Eve

I drink to forget, and I've probably drunk too much this night. And as I walk home through the rain, dripping wet, somewhat unsteady on my feet, I hear the peal of bells, the Christmas bells, bringing memories of times past, of childhood hopes, of the excitement of gifts, the waiting expectantly.

Somehow I make my way into the Church, I don't know why, but it is Christmas, and at this time of the year, I want to be among other people, to share that warm glow, to sing carols. In the cold light of day, it may seem like nonsense, but on this night, this special night, there is a joy.

Time for the lost sheep to come back to the fold, even if for a few hours, and hear once more the Christmas story, of the child born this day who still gives a spark of hope, even now, even to someone drunk like me. I settle in a pew, and I look at all the bright and shining faces, all the happiness, and I am glad. Wouldn't it be so bleak if it was always winter and never Christmas?

And reverently, I stumble very carefully, very slowly forward in procession, and take that bread and wine. And tomorrow it will be the soup kitchens for cheer. Eating and drinking is an act of reverence, this day, not what you believe, and I don't know what I believe, but I am happy to eat at this table, even if I am unworthy.

And I leave to the glad cries of "Happy Christmas", returning to the dark streets, not quite so dark now. The rain has stopped, and I have glimpsed that everlasting Light, just briefly, and known how the hopes and fears of all the years have been met there tonight.

An Anniversary

Eternity is found in the moment, and the moments are strung together like semi-precious stones on a cord until the fates cut the thread.

It wasn't so many years ago, but it feels like many years. It feels like a lifetime has passed. Days in which we barely knew each other, days in which we came together, days of love, days of decline in health, and one terrible day that I will never forget, a day of departure.

The 1st of July was always our special day, our anniversary. We would always do something special, usually going out to Bistro Soleil for a quiet meal. It was a nice restaurant, good food, a reasonably priced set menu, close to the sea, but above all, small and intimate. It was the perfect restaurant for lovers.

It has gone now, or at least changed its name. The colours have been redecorated, and it looks different. I can't put my finger on how a name change makes a difference, but it does. It is in the memory, you see. The memory of the nights there, holding hands over the table. The Valentine's Day meal, where the desert was small chocolates and truffles on one large plate, to be shared.  The friendly maître d'  coming out to see if everything was right. The warm glow of the lighting. And like you, my sweet Annie, that has gone too. It is perhaps a blessing. I cannot go back there with friends, and spoil those memories. They have been sealed in the past, and it is a past which brooks no return.

It was misty when we first met, on the 1st of July. Can you believe that? The middle of July, mid-day, and cold, damp mist. It is like that now, at the end of June, and of course people are asking where summer has gone. But I remember that damp wet day, the mist swirling, thick, at the start of July. Days like those are significant; it may just be the first day we met, but I won't forget it.

I'd taken an afternoon's holiday especially off work, and we decided to meet at lunchtime at Big Vern. Neither of us knew quite what to expect. There are moments of awkwardness, aren't there, when you meet a stranger for the first time, just you and them. And I can still see you, arriving late, walking in from the misty car park, and I saw you at last, and you me.

We talked, and I know Star Trek, your favourite TV series, came into the talk somewhere on the way. And many other things, as the book says, of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax, of cabbages and kings. And when we left, we agreed to meet again, neither of us quite knowing where it would lead to, nor to the five joyful years we would have together.

There's a cliché that quality of life is more important than quantity, but clichés often only embody what we know to be the truth. Some people, of course, have nearly a lifetime together, but for others it is all too brief. But that's no less significant, for time spent together cannot be weighed and measured in scales, any more than your ashes, now scattered into the world's wind, can be gathered.

Here the whole world (stars, water, air,
And field and forest, as they were
Reflected in a single mind)
Like cast off clothes were left behind
In ashes yet with hope that she,
Re-born from holy poverty,
In Lenten Lands, hereafter may
Resume them on her Easter Day.

Cherry Brandy: A Thought for Liberation Day

What has Cherry Brandy got to do with Liberation Day? On Liberation day, 1945, my mother's uncle went back to his house to get a bottle of cherry brandy for the family to celebrate their freedom with. It had been tucked away, unopened, for the entire Occupation.
 
The bottle of Cherry Brandy, in a very real sense, symbolised the abiding hope of the Jersey people. And there were other signs of that freedom as well. Wireless sets were brought out of hiding, Union Jacks were taken out ready to be raised.
 
Until the D-Day landings, the possibility of freedom must have seemed very remote. Jersey was Occupied by the German Forces, made into a fortress of concrete and steel, and there was no sign of any invasion of nearby France; when it happened, it happened very quickly. Before then, it must have seemed a very dark and threatening future.
 
But the people of Jersey never lost faith that a day would come when they would be free, and the Cherry Brandy, along with countless other things, were kept back, in reserve, a pledge that the people had not lost hope. For them, it was buried treasure.
 
That is the nature of hope. It is not certainty, and at times, it may fly in the face of more rational judgements, because it looks to a particular future, and reason may suggest the chances of that happening are very remote. It does not mean having no doubts, but it means keeping true despite those doubts.
 
The opposite of hope is despair. And some of the people certainly did despair and lose hope. It is easy to see why. Their world had been turned upside down, and they were living in an occupied land. And the increased privations which that brought must have eaten into that hope. They can hardly be blamed for giving up. Would we have done better? Who can say?
 
But it is remarkable how most people did keep going. I wonder how often my great-uncle thought about that Cherry Brandy. It was something material to cling onto, but it also provided a means of keeping up hope in the face of despair.
 
We are creatures of flesh and blood, and we need the physical. The central rite of Christianity is material and spiritual, eating bread and wine, a sign of the feast of freedom, of the table of the coming Kingdom, looking forward in hope.
 
And there is a profoundly religious aspect to liberation. Ours is a culture in which the words of the Bible proclaim time and again "liberty to the captives". That's a phrase which must have resonated to the Jersey people until the day when the promise came true.
 
What is the response to freedom? What thoughts went through their minds as they drank the Cherry Brandy. "Here's to us; we made it". That certainly, and also surely gratitude, thanksgiving to the troops who had come and set them free, to the Red Cross Ship Vega, without whom they would have not survived, and to God, for answered prayers.
 
But not all prayers were answered. Some Islanders had died in concentration camps, and would not be returning. So perhaps too there was a toast for the memory of those who had not come through the fires, but who had also kept faith until their end.
 
I don't know if it was good quality Cherry Brandy, or how well it had survived the war. But I imagine those drinking it, celebrating their freedom once more, found it to be the best Cherry Brandy in the world, and never ever drank anything that tasted quite as good as that taste of freedom.

Shadows of Night: A Meditation for the Spring Equinox

Today is the spring equinox, and as usual, I have penned a short meditative piece. It is a journey structured in three parts. Part 1 is the night, and you'll see a lot of the bad weather we have been having of late. It is shelter in the storm, and the journey is into the night, into the storm. Part 2 is an urban piece in the middle, and it takes us to the peak of the night. Part 3 brings us through the night to dawn with signs of hope and joy. It is structured as a journey, where the weather takes us through an emotional journey as well, first the descent, and then the ascent.  Come and journey with me, gentle reader...

Shadows of Night
 
The Night
 
This is a time of division, of night and day divided into two, side by side, in harmony. The candlelight casts a shadow. And in the shadow lies the darkness.
 
We meet at night, beneath the stars, in the sacred grove. In the centre is a small cist in circle, an ancient tomb. Above the stars glitter and sparkle in the night sky, shining down on us, for we are the dust of stars, scattered on across the earth.
 
And since ancient times, our ancestors have gathered here. The still centre in the forest, while about the trees shake in the wind. Snow is falling heavily, and branches break and fall. With a creak, and a snapping sound, some trees topple, their roots weakened by the storm.
 
But the priestess holds the sacred torch alight. We have marked out the compass points, and charged the grove with words of power. Outside, the storm rages in the night, but we remain here, protected, in the calm. This is the still centre, the peace within, and here is not the breath of wind. Our white robes are still; no whisper of wind touches them.
 
The skies here are clear, and the stars shine down, glittering in a clear sky, but beyond the confines of the grove, the sky is black with snow clouds, a swirling vortex around the stillness at its heart, where we stand.
 
It is midnight, and the priestess raises the torch, and we begin to circle around the Neolithic tomb.
 
Marching, marching, marching in the night
Round and round, march by firelight
Marching, marching, marching in the night
Here is darkness, cloaking world from sight
Marching, marching, marching in the night
 
And then we kneel around the tomb, waiting quietly, calmly, for the passage of time, praying for the ending of the night, and the restoration of the balance of night and day.
 
Midnight's Hour
 
The streets of the old town are quiet. The weather has driven people inside, and the market closed early. The gas lamps are flickering in the wind, and snow covers the streets. Only the occasional sound of horse's hooves breaks the silence, from a lone hansom cab in a distant street.
 
The candle is flickering on the wooden desk in the study. A book is open, and the scholar is reading thoughtfully, translating the ancient Latin into English. He turns the Tarot cards, and there is the falling tower, struck by lightning, and death, a knight in black armour, slowly riding a horse.
 
He jots down calculations, and turns to the book of meanings, taking verses, and translating them to English. And then he reads what he was written:
 
Snow swiftly falls across the land
Cold has come to chill the bones
Darkness stretches out an icy hand
Outside, the blizzard howls and moans
 
The mighty oak has fallen down
Skies are thick with dark grey cloud
Fields are clothed in whitest gown
As snow descending, like a shroud
 
Fear walks along this frosty world
And brings despair, prepares the way
As riding in with banner unfurled
Death, the horseman, here today
 
The bells have rung, the hour is late
And all are gripped in frozen fate
 
The scholar sighs, and shakes his head with weariness. It has been many nights since he had slept well. He thinks to himself "How long must I endure trouble? How long will sorrow fill my heart day and night?"
 
And he consoles himself with a saying he once read "Tears may flow in the night, but joy comes in the morning".
 
The Dawning of Light
 
The sun has risen upon a frozen land. The snowfall has ended. Now the fields are white with snow, and the odd gust of wind brings snow cascading across the fields and hedgerows. But the sun is rising, and with it will come the thaw.
 
We gather round the entrance to the dolmen. The passage to the dolmen is in darkness, and as the sun comes up, we see the light move, like a straight golden beam, down the floor and to the back chamber.
 
The priestess stands there, and she is lit up in its radiance, holding aloft a golden casket. And we watch, patiently, as she brings it out along the passage, and places it on the ground. Then she opens it, and there are the treasures of the tribe, a golden torque gleaming in the sun. This is our sun's gold, our sign of light. And she places it on her arm, and raises it high, and we shout with joy and thank the gods for their blessing upon our land.
 
And we celebrate the new birth of the sun, holding hands, dancing slowly round the dolmen.
 
Dancing, dancing, dancing in the light
Round and round, dawning of the light
Dancing, dancing, dancing in the light
Here is daylight, golden rays delight
Dancing, dancing, dancing in the light
 
We turn and close the compass points, releasing our barrier against the storm. Suddenly, we feel the rays of the sun on our face, the warming breath of wind across the land, and hear the trickling waters of a nearby stream, and hear the distant crowing of a rooster.
 
The sun is rising higher, the wind is now a warm breeze, and the darkness has ended. In the meadow, the snow is thawing, and yellow daffodils are gently swaying. The shadows of night have passed, and hope has been born anew.
 
And over across the downs, where the snow has now melted, we see the white horse on the hillside. She has returned to us.

A Tale by the Fireside

In the festivals of the Pagan Wheel of the Year, the 1st of February marks the beginning of Spring, known as Imbolc. Here is a meditative piece written for Imbolc.

A Tale by the Fireside
 
The Clan in the Cave
 
The fire burns brightly in the mouth of the cave. Inside, I see the clan, in animal furs, huddled together for warmth, as the hail strikes harshly against the granite cliff face. Cold winds blow into the cave, but close to the heat, the wood crackling and sparking, the flames burning brightly.
 
Hunger gnaws at their bellies, but it will soon be sated; the smell of roast mammoth makes their mouths water; soon enough, taken from the spit, it is torn by stone knife, and passed around, hand to hand. Eyes shine beneath each heavy Neanderthal brow as the meat is ravenously devoured. The children look on with anticipation, and eagerly take the meat as their mothers pass it to them, and soon all are eating hungrily.
 
The hunt began days ago, and there was an excitement, a thrill in the chase, as they ran alongside the herd, stabbing with short spears, goading the herd into a stampede, until some mammoths came to the cliff tops, and unable to halt their headlong flight, plunged over; their carcasses to be gathered, a source of clothing and food for weeks to come.
 
This is a harsh life, of bitter climate, of following the herds as the great ice sheets withdraw from the land, and further and further north they travel in search of food. The old and infirm, those who fall injured in the hunt, are left; the tribe cannot carry them, and they remain, left behind, until they give up their spirit to the gods, and their flesh decays, until their bones lie bleached white and weathered on the tundra.
 
But the days are growing brighter, and already the land extends further to the north; soon they will leave this place and journey further north, across the great river plains, and pass out of memory and sight.
 
Others will came and take their place within the cave, but they will be a different kind of man, dark skinned, coming from Africa, and also moving north. For tens of thousands of years, they will live alongside their cousins, but then the older race of men will vanish from the land. There is a darkness here, and we do not know what came to pass, but there may be a stain of blood within this prehistory, as one kind of man fought against his cousins; at the end of this time, they are no more.
 
And the lands will warm, and the seas will rise, the great plains will be flooded, and become seas; the tides will rise, stealing forests from the shores, until they come in crashing against the granite rocks beneath the cave mouth. But all this is yet to come, and the cave will keep its secrets for over a hundred thousand years.
 
Marching, marching, marching over land
Now the tribe halts, coming to a stand
Find the cave mouth, settle there a while
Mammoth bones make a steady pile
 
Marching, marching, marching over land
Out from cave, and down to beach and sand
Eating the limpets, taken from the shore
Empty shells just fall upon the floor
 
Marching, marching, marching over land
Then our leader raises up his hand
There are people, strange of form and face
Are they friendly, men of other race
 
Marching, marching, marching over land
Now the tribe halts, coming to a stand
Lost in shadows, only bones remain
Echoes, parting, never seen again
 
Cailleach
 
Smoke came from the chimney stack of the small cottage on the cliff top. It was cold, and the old woman had lit a fire. Earlier in the day, a great cloak around her, she had been outside, gathering firewood for the rest of the winter. Now she was in the warm, a green shawl wrapped around her, looking out of the window, her staff left leaning against the wall. A large crow flew overhead, carrying sticks in her beak.
 
The wind was rising, and sleet hit the window pane; it was a foul day, and as she looked down on the beach, the waves crashed on the rocks, spray rising high. The sky was dark, heavy with storm clouds. The kettle began to whistle.
 
She filled the iron tub with hot water from the kettle, and with soap, began to wash her woollen cloak, her great plaid. Outside, she could hear the roar of the tempest, as the storm broke, and the waves crashed down with thunder on the craggy rocks below. In the bay, the currents swirled around, and a spiral funnel of water rose up out of the sea, curling and twisting through the air.
 
She listened to the wind; it whistled through the rocks, through the fractured cave below, and she heard the voices, coming up from the cracks in time. They would sing of winter, of the hunting of the mammoth. The great elders of the tribe would take bones and cast them to make magic.
 
The voices would fade softly away to whispers, speaking softly of the sunwards trek, the return of the light, and hinting of the promise of spring. And the wind would calm, the tornado would vanish as swiftly as it had come, and the storm would be over.
 
The cloak was drying before the fire. As she brewed a herbal drink, the old woman reflected on the day. It had been foul weather, but that meant the winter would be short. Every day, the darkness would retreat, and the light would shine ever more brightly, and soon the green blade would rise again.
 
Now the green blade rises from the buried grain,
Though the storm has broken, with its heavy rain
Love lives again, that with the dead has been:
Past time remembered, of peoples now unseen
 
Hunting they went out, there the mammoth slain
Old lady listening, where their bones have lain
Crows flying overhead, branches in their beak
Here are signs and wonders, Cailleach do seek
 
When our hearts are saddened, grieving or in pain,
Wash away our troubles, when she brings the rain
Dark though the land is, here her hand is seen
Love lives again, that with the dead has been:
 
The Eternal Now
 
Triangle fitted to triangle, and the welding torch spat sparks as they were joined together. It had been a concept, an idea, that had come to him, unbidden, as he walked along the beach, and looked at the far cliffs.
 
It began years ago, when the archaeologists had first explored the cave mouth. A granite cave on a rocky headland did not seem promising at first, but as they dug deeper inside the cave, there buried deep was the story of the past. Here was the graveyard of debris, of teeth lost to old age to decay, of flint hand axes, limpet shells, of the bones of the woolly mammoth that had been hunted so very long ago.
 
The cave dwellers looked out at a vast cold prairie frequented by herds of woolly mammoth and woolly rhinoceros, and made fires to combat the glacial cold. Eventually they abandoned the site during the coldest, glacial phases, when much of the land was frozen.
 
Now it was there, on the podium, the finished creation, the realisation of a story told long ago; it would be but a footnote in history, a metal frame of the mammoth, shining in steel, reflecting an ancient world, so very different from our own. The voices had spoken to him across the millennia, and he had tried to capture this with his vision.
 
It was a bleak cold day, as he trudged back across the beach. But every winter has its spring; in ages past, the ice had retreated, receding northwards; the present day, cold though it was, would see the cycle of the seasons, as winter turned again to spring.
 
And as he looked towards the distant cliff tops, he could see a small shape, perhaps an old woman in a dark cloak, raising her hand in greeting. The sun was coming out from behind the clouds, and the land was slowly warming once more. Spring was coming, and soon the green blade would rise again.

The Longest Night: A Meditation for the Winter Solstice

The Longest Night
 
Dusk
 
It is growing dark, and I am standing on the hillside, beside the ancient stones placed here by my ancestors. They gleam white with lichen, old rocks, dragged here over four thousand years ago, and they stand here still. A mute testimony to the forgotten beliefs of long ago, when there came a tribe that sought to mark out a sacred space where they could worship.
 
A little further away, a fire is burning, and I feel the heat as the wood crackles and sparks fly into the night sky. We are all gathered here, and I sit beside the others, and we sip mead and eat honey cakes, and when we have drunk and eaten our fill, we turn to await the storyteller. He pushes back the hood on his robes, and lights his long stemmed pipe, gently blowing smoke rings until we are ready. Then he begins.
 
Moon
 
There is the tower, tall, dark, but with a flicker of light from a high window. And here is my path, my destiny, the fate woven in moonlight.
 
I enter the door and climb the stairs. They spiral round, ever upwards, until I come to an open door at the near the top of the tower. On a table is a candle, flickering brightly, and beside it is a lady sitting on a chair, a blue shawl around her. In front of her is a spinning wheel.
 
The window is open, and the moon shines brightly. The rays of the moon shine on the bare wooden floor, and the dust sparkles along their path. The moonbeams reach to the corner where the lady spins, and it seems as if she captures their thread in her wheel, as she spins a fine cloth, singing softly.
 
Here is thread, and here I spin
Weaving every moon lit night
Care for clan and every kin
Making tapestry of light
 
Here is thread, and here I spin
Weaving every moon lit night
Now the thread grows ever thin
Comes the darkness, barrow wight
 
Here is thread, and here I spin
Weaving every moon lit night
Fear and hope both found therein
Spinning nightly my delight
 
Planetary
 
The citadel was on the edge of a desert, and within the three astrologers gazed at the pool; in its cool waters, the sky at night was shining, rippling in a breeze, then steadying into a fixed pattern as the wind died down, and the waters stilled. In the sky above was Jupiter rising, on a path which would take it close to Saturn, and the star Regulus, shining bright in the constellation of Leo.
 
The eldest unravelled a scroll and began to read the words of the Chaldean oracle:
 
Jupiter ascending, a mighty beam, a blaze of light:
Laugher of the seven heavens, the glorious sight;
The breath of air, raising spirits high, so tall,
As the mighty planet casts its light on all;
The cripple walks upright with the healing touch,
No more the need to lean so heavy on his crutch;
The beggar in rags, down, despondent, rises up,
Joy when the mighty Lord has come to sup;
Kingship and power, the giant upon his throne,
The power released, like sparks from fires blown;
Listen! The bells are ringing loud, the trumpet blows!
Behold the mighty planet, shining, more brightly glows,
Like a sunlit wave, creamy crested, shining in the night;
The wanderer in the sky takes up his throne aloft and high,
And the music of the heavens plays across the sky,
The solemn festival, the laughter, as the king appears:
A joy of creation blowing , a holiday from fears;
Here is Jupiter the Mighty, banded with his rings:
A conjunction with Saturn, Regulus, the cosmos sings;
In the darkest night, amidst the stars, the brightest white,
Joy to the world, the promise of the coming light.
 
Stars
 
The stars move closer in their dance, a pattern in the sky. It is cold, and the sky is clear, and the portents are visible. In distances beyond our comprehension lie other galaxies, alien worlds, and beyond that, the edge of the known universe.
 
The light from distant suns began its journey when our earth was being formed. A billion stars have emerged from the dust of space, have been born, have died, and still the great hymn of the cosmos continues.
 
The history of the stars is ancient. The stories are told and retold, and will be, while there is breath on earth, while there are chanters to tell the ancient lays, and learning passed on from generation to generation in tales told by the fireside, before sleep.
 
Centaurus was wisest of the Centaurs. His name, when he lived on earth, was Chiron. He taught the mighty Hercules. But in an accident, he was wounded; immortal he cried out in endless pain. At last Zeus took pity on him, and placed him among the stars, where he shines down, casting wisdom upon our world for all who would seek it.
 
Orion was a mighty hunter, with his faithful dogs, famed throughout the lands. He fell in love with Merope, but she rejected his suit, and sends him away disconsolate. Distracted, he stepped on a scorpion and died.
 
The gods were sad that such a tragic end should befall a hero, and placed him in the night sky, where he shines brightly with his dogs,. Canis Major and Canis Minor. The hunt goes on, and there are the hunted, also in the night sky, Lepus the rabbit, and Taurus the bill. But Scorpius they placed on the opposite side of the sky, so he would never again suffer the sting again.
 
Many are the stories of the stars, and on this darkest night, it is a time to tell their tales. These are a few of the stories told so very long ago, but still remembered as we gaze upward at the stars in the clear night sky and they shine forth, sending their blessings down upon us.
 
Darkness
 
It was the long dark night, and the stars were hidden behind thick dark clouds.
 
Cry freedom, he said. But they came in the night, and when morning came, he was gone. Taken to the camps, where the searchlights prowled the night land, and the shadows were sharp and jagged like the wire. He was a grandfather, much beloved, proud of his roots in his native land, but he was taken away, removed from his family, and never seen again.
 
A branch is severed from the tree, and the bare trunk is raw, sap weeping from the wound. A curse lays heavy on the land, like an evil enchantment. And from deep in his cold citadel, the tyrant rules the land with an iron fist. He mocks the gods.
 
This is the darkest point of the night, a time of loss, a time to mourn those who have joined the shades, and those lost who have spoken truth against power, and paid the price.
 
We light a candle for freedom, for the ending of the longest night, and pray that dawn may come.
 
The wound is deep and will not heal
We mourn the past, the bells do peel
Even when we know, we never find
Still chords of love shall ever bind
 
The darkness night, the turning point
A healing touch, time out of joint
And bind together, holdings hands
Hope is lines drawn in the sands
 
Loss is beating like a broken heart
We may grasp only some small part
Of the whole. But in the darkest night
There is still a space for candle light
 
 
Dawn
 
The dawn will come, and the embers of the fire will be softly glowing. Then we shall take a log from the fire, and as the sun has come to the turning point of the year, so shall we take turns, and leap over the fire.
 
This is the Yule log, a sign for hope, for the renewal of the sun at the turning point of the year, and as we leap over the smouldering wood, we too cross the threshold from darkness into light and are reborn.
 
Pass through fire, be not burned
Such is promise now discerned.

Shadows: A Meditation for Samhain

A meditative short piece for Samhain...

Shadows
 
I was walking on a path that cut though the meadowlands of the valley. Beside the valley was a stream, flowing over stones, crystal clear waters. I crossed a small wooden bridge across the stream. Drizzle drenched me; heavy clouds overshadowed the hills ahead.
 
I had been given directions, and looking at the map, I could hear the voice of the druid describing the journey that I was to undertake. He had spread out the parchment, crinkled and cracked, upon a flat stone within the cave. By the flickering torch, blazing in its bronze holder, I could make out the contours of the land, the stream, the hills, and my destination. It was a still night, the air fresh and clear, and it seemed so easy. But now it was a journey into shadows.
 
Down in the valley, the path seemed to twist and turn strangely, and my head was not so clear. I was feeling damp, drenched by the incessant rain falling softly on the land. The path divided into two, and I had to pause to recollect which route I was to take.
 
As I stood there, I noticed the ruins of a dwelling, but as I watched, they shimmered, and walls and a quadrangle appeared. On a tiled mosaic floor, I could make out the head of  Minerva-Sulis. Shadowy figures could be seen, and grew clearer yet. Their garb was at first unfamiliar to me, but as the shapes grew sharper, I could see the garments of a Roman family. They were embracing, and weeping, and I heard snatches of conversation, distantly. Then I heard the lady of the household say:
 
Farewell, and into exile now you go
We weep: such tears, like rainfall flow
This is a time of parting, of great sorrow
As you venture to dark night of tomorrow
 
Farewell, and into exile now you go
Cruel fate, to deal us such a blow
May household gods guide your ways
Alas! You are lost to us, for rest of days
 
Farewell, and into exile now you go
And in a thousand years, who will know?
Mourn your sentence, time to say farewell
And write of us, that someday one may tell
 
The mists came down over the dwelling, and the voices faded into silence, and I continued along the right hand path. Now it rose steeply, along the other side of the valley, and I was passing by many pine trees, the air damp and heavy with their scent. Huge yellow fungi grew by the trunks of the trees, and there was a carpet of pine needles on the forest floor. I looked up at one mighty pine, and the tapering form of the tree rose like a spire, and on its branches, I could see the seeds within the scaly cones, nature shielding them from injury.
 
I came across a clearing in the forest, and there, dancing in the grove, was a lady in makeshift green kirtle of leaves, with sleeves of light grey, cobweb, gossamer, fine, like wings. I remembered the druid telling me of the Oreades, the spirits of the pine trees, and how they would rejoice when the rain makes the trees to grow.
 
Now I recalled the overheard conversation of that Roman leaving for exile, surely a poet. There came to me the fragments of  his speech: "Richly robed in gorgeous finery, and richer still her beauty; such the beauty of the Naides and Dryades, as we used to hear, walking the woodland ways
 
And the lady turned to face me, and I saw her green eyes, as she intoned the story of her trees:
 
A forest rising upon the hills
Green amidst the winter chills
Towering high towards the sky
Branches draw the upward eye.
 
Here is Scots Pine, needle leaves
Make a canopy of natures eaves
Shelter amidst the winter snow
Pine cones as ornaments bestow.
 
Scots Pine wands show destiny
Reveal the true path that you see
Focus on purity, and the divine
Give insight into hidden sign.
 
Torches of pine once a light
For ancient Caledonian sight
Stone age temple, banquet hall
Fire from the wood shone tall.
 
In grove of pines, the borderland
Reach and touch with open hand
The branches part, a veil thin
Between your world, and fairy kin
 
The lady dances off, fleet of foot, into the forest, and I resume my path up towards the summit of the hill. The forest ends, and I am walking beside wild grasslands, wet with dew.
 
The mist still hangs heavy over the ground, and I can make out only shadowy shapes to the side of me. I hear the sound of digging, which suddenly ceases; then I hear the chink of coins being dropped into a hole in the ground. The shapes fade; shades of a people who came, fearful to this land, and buried their treasures, hoping one day to return. I know this is a time when the curtain between past and present grows thin, like a threadbare tapestry, and time breaks in, with glimpses of past stories half told. Here are no endings, only fragments, like broken shards of ancient pottery.
 
A wind is rising, and the mist clears. I look upwards at the starry night. There is Jupiter journeying between the horns of Taurus, not far from the bright star Aldebaran. The moon is past full, entering the dark half of the year. The Pleiades glitter, jewels of the night sky.
 
A voice cries out:
 
Cold the sky, the stars my destiny
A scattering of stardust on the land
Open your eyes, come now to see
So many galaxies like grains of sand
 
Now there are wooden poles in the ground, either side of the path, and on these hang lanterns made from hollowed-out gourds. Flames flicker through the carved sides, a yellow eyes and mouth grinning at all who came this way.
 
There is the Samhain fire ahead, surrounded by rings of dancing figures. I see people lighting brands from the fire, and running around the fields and hedges, boundaries drawn in light. Ahead is the bonfire, an island of light against the oncoming winter darkness, a beacon of hope shining in the night.
 
I take my place with those holding hands, and we circle the bonfire, calling for blessing and protection against the approaching winter storms.
 
And afterwards, we each take a handful of ashes from the fire, and all depart, sprinkling the ashes over the fields to protect them during the winter months, and give blessings to the soil. So mote it be!

Mabon Medition: A Time to Dance, A Time to Mourn.

Mabon is the Autumn Equinox in the Wheel of the Year, coming up this week.

With the way that Mabon has developed in modern Paganism, it includes fruits including pomegranates, stones including Sapphire, Lapis Lazuli, and activities such as gathering dried herbs, walking in the woods, honouring the dead. I've incorporated these elements in the meditation.

"Mabon" comes from Welsh tales of Mabon ap Modron, the Welsh God, (the "great son of the great mother"). The Equinox is the birth of Mabon, from his mother Modron, the Guardian of the Otherworld, the Healer, the Protector, the Earth.

However, while elements of this story have been taken up by modern Paganism, there is no historical evidence of any authentic ancient festival of that name, or around that date. An earlier Welsh term "Aban Efed" was invented by Iolo Morgannwg, and the term "Mabon" was invented by Aidan Kelly in the 1970s to be a more authentic-sounding "Celtic" term than "Autumn Equinox" for the Wiccan tradition.

There was no celebration recorded of the autumn equinox in Celtic countries, and any reconstruction of it is a modern work of the creative imagination - that doesn't mean that it can't be celebrated, just as harvest festivals are celebrated, but just that claims of authenticity are misplaced. In Anglo-Saxon customs, September (as we know from Bede) was known as haleg-monath or 'holy month', but as Ronald Hutton notes in "Stations of the Sun", "it can be surmised that this was derived from religious ceremonies following the harvest; but of these apparently no testimony remained by the time of Bede himself."

I have eschewed any allusions to the Welsh Mabon, or the mythology which is part of modern Paganism concerning the dying God of the Corn, and instead concentrated on the theme which runs through much harvest lore, ancient and modern, that of balance between light and dark of the equinox.

I have however drawn on Breton folk lore, especially the story "The Kerion's Feast" (The Kerions are the "little people" of Breton legends) and also there's a reference to the Susan Cooper book book "The Grey King", set in Wales, so there's still a certain amount of Celtic lore here. Sharp eyed readers may spot an allusion to Dante, and of course Ecclesiastes.

Mabon Meditation: A Time to Dance, A Time to Mourn. 

I was wandering along the path in the woods, when I came across a clearing. There, blackberry bushes were full of ripe fruit, luscious and ready to pick; I collected some in my basket, and carried on, wandering further along the path, as I espied one bush after another.
 
And so it was that I did not notice, beneath the canopy of branches, that the sky was changing hue; a darkening blue, and then to black. Night descended swiftly; a cloak thrown over the land. The birdsong was suddenly still; the woods were silent. I could still see, but dimly; branches silhouetted against the stars; fingers pointing in the night sky.
 
It was a warm Autumn night, and the air was dry, and I was suddenly very tired, so I decided to rest. I found a dry patch of grass to the side of a glade, and took out the rug from my rucksack, and placed it on the ground. I had thought to rest a short while before returning home, but drowsiness crept up swiftly on me; soon I lay there fast asleep.
 
I was awaked by the sound of many voices; there were not loud voices, but soft voices, yet lively, excited, and I opened my eyes to see the strangest sight.
 
Now I had been lying behind a bush, and through the gaps, in the clearing, was lit a fire. Around the fire were a little sturdy people, male and female, all dressed in white robes, and making merry. On branches of trees hung flickering candles in tiny lanterns; casting moving shadows over the ground as the branches swayed gently. On part of the trunk of a felled oak, laid out as if on a table, were jugs of elderflower wine; dishes of every kind of berries and nuts were spread out on the grass around. And they danced and sang so gleefully that I watched entranced.
 
A voice spoke softly: "This is the time for celebrating the harvest."
 
A lady, also short in stature, but with a golden robe, stood in their midst, and all were silent; they were waiting, in anticipation, listening for what she had to say.
 
She stood up, and sang this song:
 
Come, oh come, to the autumn lands
Come now, farewell to the golden sands
The summer is gone, the mist is here
Berry ripe, pick blackberries near
 
Come, oh come, to the autumn lands
Come now, so quick, and take my hands
Dance barefoot over leaves so brown
And gold and red, of autumn's gown
 
Come, oh come, to the Autumn lands
Picking fruit from the meadowlands
So harvest ripe, such golden days
As Fall descends, rejoice her ways.
 
Then the merry-making began again, and I leaned forward to get a better look, and one of my feet snapped a twig on the ground. There was silence, and the dancing stopped. Suddenly, all the lights went out, and I could see no shapes moving in the glade. I stumbled forward, but as I groped in the near darkness, I found only dry ashes from the fire; of the little folk and their feast, there was no sign.
 
I found myself shivering, and all the heat and warmth from the fire seemed to have drained from the woods. An owl hooted in the distance. The stars and moon were obscured by thickening wisps of cloud, and I felt the cold clammy fog starting to blow through the forest. I found myself astray in this dark wood where the straight track had been lost.
 
A voice spoke in my mind: "Warmth is behind us, cold lies ahead."
 
But in the distance, along the track, was a light, and I made my way towards it. I suddenly came out from the woods, and onto an expanse of wild grass and sand dunes, rising at the edges of the land, great hills of white shining in the moonlight, whose peaks were enfolded with a thick, dense, grey mist.
 
Ahead of me was a gypsy caravan, a Romany Vardo, brightly painted in green; on one hook by the entrance was an oil lamp, the beacon that had led me hither. The door was open, and I went inside. There was a warm carpet, fair white curtains on the windows, a table and two chairs. There I saw an old woman, wearing a bright blue shawl, a blue as bright as lapis lazuli, and on one of her fingers was a sapphire ring. She beckoned me to come in, and take a seat.
 
When I was seated, she gave me a drink of pomegranate juice, and I drank deeply, because I was very thirsty. Then I had time to pause, and take in my surroundings.
 
Behind her, a fine tapestry partitioned off a sleeping area, and there was also a small stove whose small chimney passed through the roof. Bunches of dried herbs, bound with yellow ribbons, hung from small hooks on the walls.
 
She gazed into a dark obsidian mirror on the table in from of us, and it seemed to clear and instead of reflections, I could see a burial site, grave stones, stone angels weeping, crosses, and large ornate tombs. They were all adorned with leaves spread out at their base, and small clusters of acorns and pine cones. Small pebbles and sea shells were also placed around the gravesides.
 
A voice spoke in my mind: "This is the time for honouring the dead"
 
The mist was now thicker, and through the door of the caravan, I could scarce see more than a few feet. The rays of the oil lamp caught the mist, the smoke like strands of white, creeping to the door, and it felt colder still.
 
Then the old woman looked up and me, and intoned the following:
 
The Grey King awakes, the mist arises
Cold touch on earth, his hands of bone
Damp as the grave, in his disguises
His cloak flows down as chill as stone
 
The Grey King awakes, and reaches out
Hedgerows and hills grow dim and fade
In swirling mists, vague shapes to doubt
His cloak flows down, the land in shade
 
The Grey King awakes, he rules the land
Sight fades in grey, makes a world alone
Old aches return, touched by fell hand
His cloak flows down, upon his throne
 
The Grey King awakes, so mighty, tall
Embraces the land with his mistfall.
 
Then she picked up a crystal, hexagonal in shape, and shining like quartz, but blue in colour, and bade me look into its depths. I saw a blue light flickering, softly, then brighter, and brighter, and I could not avert my gaze.
 
A voice spoke in my mind: "A time to mourn, a time to dance"
 
The blue light grew into a shining beacon, reaching into my mind, and I could feel it softly clearing the fears for the future, brushing away all the stresses and worries. Images of the little people dancing flittered across my eyes. And I felt myself drifting away, losing all sense of self in the swirling light. Soon I was fast asleep.
 
The sound of birds in the garden awoke me, and I found myself in my bed, in my cottage. My basket of blackberries was on the table. Somehow, I had returned home. I felt refreshed, renewed. The scent of rosemary drifted into the room from the bush below the window.
 
I looked out of the open window, and it was daylight, the mists had gone. Overhead was grey and cloudy, and the rain was gently falling on the grass, raindrops glistening on the green blades.
 
I remembered a very old child's story book I once had, and looked in my bookshelf. Sure enough, it was there, and one page, yellowing with age, had a picture depicting a ring of little people, in white robes, dancing around a fire. Beside the picture was a poem.
 
Outside, the rain is softly falling down
Cobwebs glitter, a fine spun gown
With pearly drops. The harvest moon
Comes out but briefly, the clouds will soon
Roll back across the darkening sky
And batwings flap as fast they fly
To catch their prey - a tiny vole
A-scurrying swiftly down its hole.
And softly tread the woodland folk,
Creep out beneath the ancient oak,
Unseen, to work away the night,
Always there, but out of sight
They rustle fallen leaves in play,
As if the wind had come to stay
Only to dawn; for at first light,
They go, these little folk of night
And when the cock begins to crow,
They are asleep, so deep below.
 
I looked out at the golden leaves falling from the tree. With velvety black and red wings, a red admiral butterfly flew over the garden, a browser of late flowers, the final bloom before winter.
 
Autumn had come. The harvest, and the slow, but beautiful dying back of the land, where it would sleep during the long cold months to come. It was a time of great joy and great sorrow, it was the time of great change, a threshold between light and dark, day and night. And I remembered the harvest dance of the little folk, and the coming of the Grey King. And I was at peace.

 

Tales for Lammas

It is cold on the hilltop. The skyline is unbroken by trees. We watch and wait as the sun goes down. This is the time. Our time. How I remember our arrival. We build wattle huts. Then we placed mighty stones here in a circle around our huts, and leading from that circle, our tribe heaved on wooden rafts more stones. So it was that we put in place the mighty stones of the avenue.
 
Westwards, they lead away from the village, into the outer world, into the darkened lands beyond, the wild wood, the trees thick and dense, an ancient spirit to beware. But in the east, the stones lead to the barrow, where the bones of the ancestors are laid. There, the solar serpent awaits, ready to rise from the ashes, in the morning of a new day.
 
Now the darkness enfolds the land like a cloak, and the stars come out. And the moon is at her full, and riding high. The fire is lit, the flames leaping into the sky, and we bring the first of the grain, and scatter it on the fire. Let the sun god receive his tribute, and may he bless our fields and harvests.
 
Breaking bread in the fire's light
Here is the feasting, here's the rite
Stone on stone, we grind the grain
Blessings be of sun and rain
 
Breaking bread in the fire's light
Eating bread in the dead of night
A sower came and sewed the grain
Blessings be of sun and rain
 
Breaking bread in the fire's light
A shaman chants, garbed in white
The offerings, first fruits of grain
Blessings be of sun and rain

---

 
Our long-ships landed a long time ago on the beaches, and we passed through the dunes to the east. There we settled in this Island, and have tilled the rich soil of the hillside. The warriors have grown old, and the younger men and women know of no other life than this, tilling the soil, grazing the cattle, and fishing in the sea.
 
I too am old, and keep my notches on the sticks, to mark the passing of time, the turning wheel of the year. The harvest is upon us, the fields ripe with promise, golden like Sif's hair, and while we eat, I tell my tale.
 
Now Thor was a mighty god, a warrior to like
Thunder roaring in the sky, as his hammer strike
But all was well, he was at rest, and quietly calm
For in Lady Sif, he had found his love and balm
 
Her hair was golden, shining, gleaming in the sun
This fairest goddess, whom his heart had won
And where she walks, the fields were full and bright
The Lady Sif, the goddess bringing harvest light
 
But Loki came; he wanted hair for an evil spell
And while she slept, he came, did the deed so fell
She awoke, bereft of golden locks, and wept
That year the harvest was poor, so little kept
 
Now Thor was a mighty god, a warrior to like
When he saw Sif bereft, he set off, blows to strike
The thunder tearing across sea, sky and the land
And waves high, foaming, shoot across the sand
 
Here is terror, for the anger of the gods is great
Where Loki bound the world into an evil fate
But dwarves deep below, saw Sif, head so bare
Dug deep, to find the seam of gold down there
 
Dwarves wove the gold, in magic spun to hair
And came they forth from their dark deep lair
The hair touched her head, and grew once more
So all was well, blessed hair of Sif, our harvest lore.
 

---

It has been a bad harvest. Too much rain, the fields sodden, the crops rotting in the soil. The humours of the earth are out of balance. We have heard from travellers from Cathay of famine across their land, where no rain falls, and the people cry out in thirst. But we know otherwise - across our lands the rains come down, and the farmer watches as the harvest is lost. There will be hunger here too. There will be no bread, this Lammas eve.
 
It is time to look to the old ways, to follow need, to find the words where we have no words, and to bind us together, to call upon the spirits of earth and sky to heed our voices, and listen to our voice.
 
Circle round, and weave the spell
The need is great, the land so torn
The rain pours down, a sodden hell
And crops are failing, drown stillborn
 
Circle round, and weave the spell
The need is great, the land so dry
The soil is dust, a windswept hell
And not a cloud is there in sky
 
Circle round, and weave the spell
The balance broken, winds and rain
On us the anger of the gods so fell
For so much hunger, loss and pain
 
Circle round, and weave the spell
The need is great, restore, make well
 
There is a tale of a sower who went out to sow, and she sowed seeds of hope, of tales of the ancestors, of years good and bad. But her seed was not bread but words, words of wisdom. The summer may be full of bright sunlight, or overcast with dark rain clouds, but the true summer is eternal; it is always eternal summer in the grateful heart. And the clouds will break, and a single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows.

A Midsummer Oak

A Midsummer Oak
 
Acorn
 
The red squirrel jumped from tree to tree, then leapt onto the ground. Here was food, nuts in plenty, time for a feast. But the acorn was buried deep, and it remained untouched. The squirrel left to seek other trees, other nuts.
 
I am the acorn.
 
I am the seed, fallen into the ground, buried beneath the earth, lost to the sunlight. Down, down into the deep soil, I descend. It is a death, yet I am alive. I will be transformed by water and light. I will break apart, and rise. Green shoots will rise in the darkness, and break through the soil. I arise.
 
I am the acorn. I am the future hope after death.
 
I danced beneath the stars, the canopy of night
The seedling rooted, green; I am born of light
A dryad as a young girl, I wonder at the land
Beauty of the earth, wisdom surely planned
 
I danced beneath the stars, the canopy of night
To be so young, such promise, such delight
A dryad as a young girl, I wonder at the land
I stand by my tree; come and take my hand.
 
Sapling
 
I am the sapling.
 
The longbows needed arrows of oak. Hard fine wood, flying through the air towards a target. Death came swiftly in an arrow. So much bloodshed, so much needless waste. Young men marching to war, the great adventure. How little they knew; how few would return, broken, never the same.
 
I am young bark, soft bark, barely washed by the winter rain. The autumn winds blew strong, and many of my brothers snapped in the gales, broken before their time. I bend, but I do not break. But I will emerge changed, because I have come through the storm; it has not left me untouched.
 
I am the sapling. I am the promise of youth.
 
I danced beneath the planets, messengers of fate
Mars in the heavens, and opening death's gate
A dryad as a maiden, I wonder at the night
Weep at young soldiers, going off to fight
 
I danced beneath the planets, messengers of fate
The portents of hope, of the lovers who wait
A dryad as a maiden, I wonder at the night
Homecoming will dawn with such delight.
 
Mighty Oak
 
I am the mighty oak.
 
Oaken timbers creak in the sea, but they hold firm. Here is the heart of oak, on the rising waves, crossing the oceans; sails wind blown, on the great adventure; here are the great ships, the voyages of discovery, of strange new lands, of colonies branching out across the globe. And here is the ship's prow, painted in fine gold and green, and great sails unfurl to catch the wind, and moonrakers open up to catch the slightest breeze.
 
I am the mature bark, seasoned by the years, firm and strong. My branches spread out across the land, green leaves shading the earth, and fresh shoots rising into the air, reaching upwards into the sun. I am deep roots in the ground, drinking from the spring rain. Leaves blow in the wind, branches sway, but I stand firm my ground.
 
I am the mighty oak. I am fulfilment.
 
I danced beneath the moon, shining in the sky
Pulling the oceans, and now the tide is high
A dryad as a mother, I wonder at the stream
Flowing past the oak, flowing waters gleam
 
I danced beneath the moon, shining in the sky
Watching over forest, safe beneath my eye
A dryad as a mother, I wonder at the stream
Flowing ever onwards, like a magic dream.
 
Great Oak
 
I am the Great Oak.
 
The noble Roman Pliny told of how mistletoe entwined around the oak tree was sacred to the druids. When the time is right, when Midsummer had come, they come to take it from the tree for healing. A priest arrayed in white vestments climbs the tree and, with a golden sickle, cuts down the mistletoe, which is caught in a white cloak. They may also cut off and a burn portion of Oak in the Midsummer fires.
 
I am the bearer of wisdom, of ages past. I have seen the generations of mankind pass me by. They are born, they live but a short span, and they die. Children, adults, old people. Ashes to Ashes. And the seasons come and go, the years pass by, and I remain, more rings of growth deep within my bark. I bide my time, and wait to impart my blessing.
 
I am the Great Oak. I am the World Tree.
 
I danced beneath the sun, so full of heat and fire
With passion for the oak, I sing of my desire
A dryad now immortal, I wear a robe of green
A garland crown of flowers, as befits a queen
 
I danced beneath the sun, so full of heat and fire
Passing by the mortals, let my touch inspire
A dryad now immortal, I wear a robe of green
And I cast my spell, as I wander here unseen
 
I hear the soft footsteps of the dryads, dancing in the sacred grove, unseen to mortals, but these are my kindred, who have grown old with me. I take the light and send forth shoots, and I give light and wisdom to the sister of the oak, the mistletoe. And when it is Midsummer, the children of earth come in white robes, with golden sickle in hand, and I impart to them a fraction of my wisdom, a gleaning of the sun and night, the moon and stars.
 
This is my Midsummer gift.

The Sign of Fire

This is a meditation for Beltane, which turned out, quite by chance, to have a Royal theme.

Beltane, as Hutton notes has long been associated with fire festivals, and lately Wicker Man burnings have been used in celebration (although without any sacrificial offerings) at Girvan, Scotland (May 1st) 2009, Portsmouth, England (May 1st) , and Kirkcudbright, Scotland (May 1st) 2005, to name but a few.

Strabo and by Caesar described the use of the Wicker Man by druids for human sacrifice. Caesar's Gallic War mentions "figures of vast size, the limbs of which formed of osiers they fill with living men which being set on fire, the men perish in the flames", and Strabo in his Geography mentions "a huge figure of straw and wood, and having thrown cattle and all manner of wild animals and humans into it, they would make a burnt offering of the whole thing".

However, these accounts may be lurid propaganda - the Romans were noted for demonising their enemies in print. One must remember that the Romans accused the Carthaginians of sacrificing infants, which historians are viewing as increasingly doubtful, and accused Christians of child sacrifice, incest and cannibalism, which we know to be untrue.

In the meditation, the instruments described in the house of Dr Dee are those tools which actually belonged to him and can be seen in the British Museum. The poem about the beacons is my own adaptation of Macaulay on the Armada, and the Tilbury poem is based on the speech given by Elizabeth but rendered into verse; the story of the raising of the wind by the Tarot is an old one, but this account is my imagining of it

Enjoy your May Day!

The Sign of Fire


The mist was coming in over the waters, and I sat on the rock, in the darkness, the waves lapping around my ankles; I gazed ahead, seeing faint shapes, outlines in the dark haze, that came and went.

I hear a voice, calling softly across the sea, and I lose myself in the mist. It is hard to see anything but a dark space ahead of my eyes. The voice is that of a woman, calling softly across the waves as they ripple beneath the fog:

Beltane fires, burning bright
Take me back to yester night
To a time that I may learn
How to see, and how discern
Flaming spirits in the night
Burning fire, victory sight
Open up the gates of time
Show me now the way sublime


The House of Dr Dee


The mist clears, and I found myself looking at an old man in an simple black robe, with a small skull cap on his head. He is seated at a desk in a large library, the walls full of old books and manuscripts. Somehow, I know that I am inside a study, within the house of Dr Dee.

On the desk is an astrolabe, a short wooden wand, some papers written in a thin, spidery hand, and a dark obsidian stone, with a mirrored surface, and a candle, half-burned down. It is night, and through the window, the crescent moon shines faintly in the sky, as dark clouds blow across, obscuring its light.

The man is speaking softly to himself.

"The Queen wishes to see the shades of what may yet come to pass, and how peril may be averted. May the angelic wisdom guide me with my shew-stone, that I may see the coming dangers."
He takes up the stone, and peers at it, and chants in a tongue unknown to me, strange words that seem full of power. And as I watch, the surface of the stone clouds, so that it no longer reflects, and then, after a short span, it clears. But it is no longer reflecting the room. And he chants:

Beltane fires, burning bright
Take me back this mystic night
Let me see the burning past
Let me see the ships and mast
Show me true, and show me well
Here I summon, cast my spell
Take upon this eve to see
Danger sailing close to me


The Armada


Inside the shew stone, I see a dark moonless night, and waves rising and falling, in the midst of an immense ocean. And sailing across the sea, a vast fleet hoves into view, a great mass of ships, assembled in a tight formation, and on them flies the Spanish flag. It is the Armada, on its way to England, ready for invasion.

My line of sight changes, and I am flying over the ocean towards the land. Across the jagged rocks, up onto the hillside, where there are gathered watchers looking out. A watchman sounds an alarm, and a burning torch is plunged into the bonfire. Slowly the yellow flames begin to glow, as the fire takes hold, and soon there is a roaring flame, tongues of fire leaping high into the night sky, and glowing ashes carried higher still, caught in the updraft as the beacon blazes its warning.

I look across the land, and another hill suddenly burns brightly, as another beacon blazes its warning note. Then across the hills, one by one, the lights come on, the beacons set ablaze, the warning flame across the land. And on, and on, without a pause, they sprang from hill to hill.

And Dr Dee gazes at this sight in his shew-stone, his dark mirror, and his gaze reaches across the land, and he chants:

All night from tower to tower they sprang;
And in the valleys, with bells they rang
As flames sprang forth from hill to hill
As danger blew forth bitter chill

Till the peak blazed high on the rocky dales
Till as volcano flared the hills of Wales,
Till twelve fair counties saw blaze on lonely heigh,
Till streamed in crimson far and wide the crest of light


And I see across the sea, and English ships sail into view; they exchange cannon fire with the Spanish, but the formation holds. Then the English fleet sends forth ships alight, fire ships, into the heart of the Armada, and the formation breaks apart.

Tilbury


I am on a hillside, and soldiers are massed there, some on foot, some on horseback, in shining armour, with banners unfurled, the English flag waving in the wind. There were all kinds of other people present. I see many noblemen, wearing embroidered woollen tunics, fine cloaks fastened around them. And also around are peasants who had come from the fields.

Suddenly trumpet players sound a fanfare, and a lady rides up in silver armour, her red hair glowing in the sunshine, and I know it is Queen Elizabeth. She halts and addresses the crowd.

My loving people:
We have been persuaded to take heed,
But safety must give way to need;
And while treachery may be around,
I will not cower, but stand my ground;
I trust my loving people, faithful, true;
I will not shy away, the day to rue;
But under God, I come to fight,
To take upon the Spanish might
In midst of you, in heat of battle,
We will not bow like docile cattle;
To live and die amongst you all,
And if we bleed, in dust to fall:
This is the noble way I'll die,
Fierce fighting, and with battle cry.

I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too!


And she takes a flaming torch handed to her by one of her knights, and tosses it into the beacon. Dry and ripe for burning, the flames crackle and take hold in an instant, and the fire burns high over the land, as she rides off with her army, to see what may be, if the threat of invasion comes to pass.

The Witch on the Shore


The sun was gleaming on the tranquil sea beside the shore, and reflecting in the rock pools. Dark seaweed lay strewn around the tide line on the sand.

And there, standing on the shore,  I saw an old woman in a white robe; she pushed back her hood, and I saw her white hair, and blue eyes. She held a leather pouch, and reached into it, and drew out one card, the Ace of Staves, then another, until she had four cards in her hand, the Two of Staves, the Three of Staves, and the Four of Staves. She held them fanned out in her hand, and waved them towards the sea in a beating motion. All at once, a breeze sprang up, and the sea, still until then, began to ripple in the breeze. And she began to chant.

Let the wind be loose, let the wind be free
Loose the cards, across the sea
Raise the wind, and raise the storm
Let the cards their shape take form

Let the wind be loose, let the wind be free
The hanged man on the broken tree
Raise the wind, and raise the wave
Gusts of wind, and beating stave

Let the wind be loose, let the wind be free
Loose the cards, let Staves be key
Raise the wind, and raise the cloud
Death is coming, with a shroud


She got out four more cards from the suit of Staves, and added them to her hand. Again she fanned them out, and stood there, beating them out to sea. Small wavelets appeared, and leaves began to rustle; the breeze grew steadily stronger, loose leaves and small twigs began to move, and out at sea the wavelets grew in size, crests of waves beginning to break, white horses on the blue sea.

Once more she reached into her bag, and brought out the rest of the suit of Staves, and began to beat the air with the cards fanned out., and small branches in the trees began to sway. The waves started to break upon the rocks, sometimes throwing up spray, and dark clouds rolled over the sky. Small trees were swaying, and soon large branches began to move. Out at sea, long foaming crests were forming, and the sea was breaking over the rocks, throwing up spray high into the air.

She began to raise and lower her cards in a strong, vigorous action, becoming faster, and now the large branches began to move, and still the wind rose. With a cracking sound, some branches broke off the trees, and the waves were high, dashing down upon the rocks, and soon very high waves began to appear, their crests overhanging, them collapsing with a crash of white foam. The sky was dark with thick clouds, and it was beginning to rain.

And on the horizon, the Spanish ships came into view, struggling to retain some semblance of formation, trying to keep in line. They rose and fell with the huge waves out at sea, the wind howling through their sails, as the storm rose to its height. The water was swirling, and the ships rose and fell; the cries of the crew, desperately trying to control their path, are lost in the shrieking gales. The wind was gusting, beating, beating, like the Staves let loose into the world, free elemental forces in the dance of life.

The old women collected the cards up, and placed them back in her pouch, and withdrew one card, and held it up against the storm. It was the Tower, struck by lighting, the fire let loose upon the world. A Greater Trump had been unleashed, and would be made manifest. Once more she chanted an incantation.

The hour has struck, the cards make clear
The time has come for fire and fear
Bolts of light, come down from sky
And see the card, and let them fly

The hour has struck, the cards make clear
The time has come for loss and tear
Bolts of light, the Tower struck
And see the card, it brings dark luck

The hour has struck, the cards make clear
The time has come, the wind will hear
Bolts of light, come with my art
And see the card, all falls apart.


A violet glow like fire appeared on the masts of the ships, and the sailors crossed themselves fearfully, muttering in Spanish that the spirit-candles had come, a sign that their ships had been cursed. Then suddenly a loud flash rent the air, as a dagger of light streaked down from the heavy clouds above, and hit the leading ship, and as it blazed, the other ships fell apart, losing all formation. A deep rumble of thunder rent the air. And so it was that the ships were scattered, some lost, some to limp around the coast of Britain and back to Spain, defeated, beaten for good.

The card was replaced in the pouch, and the old woman walked slowly up the path, away from the beach. The storm was dying down, the sea becoming calm once more. The final threat was over; the Armada had been blown away by the winds, by the fire from above, and through the dance of the staves, beating against those ships in each gust of wind.

The Burning Shore


The sun is rising, breaking through the mist, and I am back by the shore; the shades of the past have faded, returning to their time and place, and it is the start of May day. The fog lifts, and I see tide is now receding, and the beach is coming clear.

In on a raft, comes an effigy in wicker, a wicker man, drawn in by the subtle currents within the bay; it gently comes to rest upon the sand, and the waves slowly drawn back, the tide going out, and it is standing there alone.

I walk down to the wicker man, and take from my bag a brushwood torch, which I set on fire with a match. I hold it out to the wicker man, and he catches fire, and is blazing, a sign of fire in the dawn sky.

Beltane fires, burning bright
Here is now the sign of light
Remember true, remember well
When the tide did rise and swell
A virgin Queen, a golden age
Now in history's crabbed page
Tarot loosed the winds they say
Now rejoice for bright May day


I sit on rocks just above the sea line, and watch the wicker man burn. As I watch the wood burn, and crumble to ashes, I notice on the ground below me an old worn Tarot card, which I pick up. I turn it over. It is the sign of the Sun, the sign of light. And I know that Beltane will shine forth and there will be many blessings on our land.