the raven

Some time past, in autumnal mists of yesteryear – though in fact it was only last year (!)  – we gathered at the appointed time and the appointed place – round about tea-time in Cilla’s front room (!)  – to celebrate the ending of the cycle of the year and beginning of the new according to the tradition of the ancients who once walked this land.

There were a good number of people there – some regular faces, some new faces and some faces that we had not seen for a while.  After catching up on each other’s lives, we did a round or two of talking sticks and assimilated all that we had learned about each other from that before deciding on the nature of our ceremony.

Cilla had proposed a ‘Ceremony with Tarot and Devas,’ which we were all looking forward to, and wanted to make use of her ‘Spiral pathway’ laid out in carefully placed stones in her garden in south London.

After the opening, Cilla took herself off behind a convenient bush and took the part of the Cailleach and, in turn, each of us went to her and drew two cards from the pack (her own design!) and we were given a reading to help us through the trials and tribulations that the long winter months might throw our way.

As we each rejoined the circle we then walked, as best we could in the cramped space, the spiral path round which we had formed our ritual.

After that came the point, as usual every year, when we honoured those that had passed on from our lives into the Summerlands and this proved to be an emotional time for quite a few of us.

As always for Samhain, we were accompanied by the bangs and whizzes of fireworks celebrating Guy Fawkes / Diwali and made a nice little accompaniment, celebrating the lives of those who had touched us.

After, it was inside for refreshment and various concoctions of tea infusions.

We would like to thank Cilla for the use of her home for the duration of our ceremony and apologise for the lateness of the posting of this write up.

On Sunday 8th February we celebrated Imbolc at Box Hill and here is my poetic take on it – with much licence:

An Imbolc Romance

In Modern Times there were three knights
Upright, handsome, sturdy wights
And they yclepèd were Sir Trui,
Sir Andrew and Sir Gregory
And into the woodland they did go
To seek out where the snowdrops grow
One Imbolc time in Februar
Riding out from lands afar
To kneel before the Goddess bright
In hope of Spring’s returning light.

There met they comely damsels four
All come the Goddess to adore,
All dressed in gowns and cloaks of green
Right fit and comely to be seen.

“Come with us”, cried Greg the bold,
“Ye newborn snowdrops to behold.”
Sir Trui said nought for it did seem
That he was wrapped up in  a dream.
But brave Sir Andrew gave the ladies
Many flowery cortesyes.

So they passed on through the snow.
The cold made cheeks and noses glow.
And there beneath a beechen tree
Were snowdrops nodding, one, two, three.
The ladies stopped their sweet palfreys
And the knights they knelt on bended knee.
“This is the place”, Sir Trui said,
And gladly bowèd down his head.

They gathered in  a sacred ring
There to dance and chant and sing
To honour Brighid, the goddess fair
With fire and water, earth and air,
And palm to palm, with love they stood
Within that  magic, snowy wood.

That night right merry made they all
Within Sir Andrew’s generous halls
With mead and pasty, cake and tea
And Sir Andrew’s lady’s company.

But fragments of their souls had stayed
Enchanted in that icy glade
Where roe deer run, and foxes tread
And the Goddess lingers with her God.

Liz Cruse

February 2009