All we are is dust in the wind. Stardust
All the way through November we pass tales of iron and blood.
Tales of fierce dances in the woods with wolf-mates, those of blood-born fire from within the womb of the darkest night of the year, we tell in December. Saluting the new-born sun. Helping the Mother - in our own way - to bring the welcomed baby.
Tales of long journeys - back home - to the hut in the woods - to the roots - we tell while merry-making at Christmas, in the gentle light of candles, aroma of cinnamon, tangerines and home-made buns... Holding hands in circle. In concert.
Calmness. January brings calmness in. Transparency of watercolours and dignity of ivory. Sipping cream tea from a delicate set of fine porcelain crockery. Savouring silvery light and glimmering snow. Serenity of whiteness. Education of senses.
Contemplating thoughts and confiding in diaries and books. Seeking thought-provoking reading. In solitude.
Learning court dances - a secret code of fans, art of sideway glances. Dignity. Glowing eyes under the fur-trimmed hood - hide passions to let it ripen.
Weaving the threads as tales of the years bygone are unfolding in front of the merry hearth...
...all the way to cunning February, biting, fighting, struggling with all the means at hand - spreading damp cold fingers to grab your heart. Just to make you stronger as you stand up to the test and break ivory eggshell.
Raves in the pubs, drinking beer and ale, singing loudly, dancing wildly. To heart content. So that our hot breath, burning cheeks, thumping hearts would melt the snow. And let the buds burst - in time.
...bleeding and oozing blood to nourish the spring just as we've fed new-born sun back in December...
Guess it's over? That's just the beginning, love. The first candle to be lit on Candlemass.
Half not as good as two drunk blokes singing it in the pub at the Irish Drink Party.
Irish Fiddle Jig - Rose In The Heather
Gay Gordons