Summer is Gone Anonymous, 9th century Irish, translated by Kuno Meyer My tidings for you: the stag bells, Winter snows, Summer is gone. Wind high and cold, low the sun, Short his course, sea running high. Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone- The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry. Cold has caught the wings of birds: Season of ice – these are my tidings.
My tidings from this dark half of the year, in the beginning of things, aren’t quite so chilly, it is still mild here, there have been few frosts and few stary nights. I have been out gathering in the woods. My weekends are filled with teaching wonderful women to weave seasonal greenery into festive wreaths for their doors. And so, my days are spent gathering. Holly and ivy, heather and fir. The low light lower still amongst the trees. The holly is the most difficult to secure, but it should be. This ancient, sacred tree. Tree of druids, of ritual, of protection, fertility, war and magic. Cutting from it should require a trial.
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