The rain falls down and down,
running, rivulets racing,
spattering leaves and windows,
patter, patter, whoosh!
Sheets of droplets scatter across the hedge.
The lake moves across itself.
Something opens, something calls.
I am weaving, casting threads,
clack, clack, the loom sings.
The threads move of their own volition,
twining about my fingers, wrists and arms,
dancing through my hair.
I am of the threads, their magick embraces me.
The dried corn on my door
knocks, knocks, knocks in the tireless wind.
Like a skeletal hand, bony and white;
Like a grandmother from the grave,
Holding high a lantern light.
Knock, knock, knock.
The Hallows bones… they are here.
I've lit the candles and sang the song,
the ghost roads appear before my eyes.
I've opened the portal, time to pass through the gate.
This road before me is earthy in scent,
tickles my nose with the aroma of the old and long gone.
Roots, like threads, all around me hang,
stones and bones lay sleeping in the earth;
I grasp those roots as they reach for me,
and pull myself along.
On to the river I glide across.
Beside me, a companion who does not speak
yet I can hear Her.
The shore is dark, but the way is lit,
The grandmother's lantern guides me.
I follow to the knocking of those bones,
trailing threads, leaving snips and bits as I walk.
Another gate and then a door,
I pass through hoping for what awaits.
Yes… they are all there,
Ancestors of blood and ways,
pale white, glowing and iridescent.
They are chatty and welcoming, but I am not surprised.
They touch my face, they take my threads.
They offer white seeds, milk and bread.
Willingly, I partake.
Like Persephone, I am aware of what I do.
For a time I am home, this Hallows Night.
copyright E A Kaufman 2011
Early Hallows morning, 2011
Blessings dark and deep!