photo by Paul Barker,
from The World of the Brontes
by James Birdsall and Paul Barker ( Pavilion).
When I see by my almanac that at the year's cold solstice, the hours of darkeness remain constant for about a week-span before the earth wheels towards light, when each month the moon seems at the full for more than one solitary night, I can't accept a calends that limits a portal of candles and torches and bonfires to a single dark before a single dawn. To such a tidy time.
And because of the hallows winds.
The breath and voice of the Forgotten.
The Elder voices begin to murmur at the dying of the green and you may hear them calling from gold September on.
They sigh from the restless sweep of dry grass, and they whisper from the morning mists. They mutter in the autumn rain.
You may feel their touch, as in a cold blade's challenge laid flat against the lips, and in their chill grip on gloveless hands.
And see them, sometimes, when the wind gallops through the leaves, when the clouds charge down across the fields, and in the sudden aging of a face.
In the shimmering change of the shape of things and seasons.
They have been loose for longer than you think -- and stalk the world by daylight as by dark.
For many days I have seen the wind.
The consumption of alcohol may make you think you are whispering when you are not.