The month of November, the fool grumbles,
The wethers are fat, the woods are half-bare…
Mis Tachwedd, tuchan merydd,
bras llydnod, llednoeth koydydd…
Welsh, circa 15th c
For the Ancestors at Nos Galan Gaeaf
As life’s hours tick beyond autumn
and winter shadows the far hill,bats gather where once swallows played
and the birch lets fall her golden leaves.
I sit with you, silent ones, to share this meal,
however harsh our words once were,
however discrete our lives,
our worlds leach now one into the other – a gentle confluence -
and like blood the dark ale carries your spirit
to rest, in this small circle of light
where united we gather strength to nurture
whatever future may be born.
Outside the marigolds glare down the approaching dark
While beyond the river, the crane is flying with my wings.