Through Winter's blight
While the world slept
And the rebirth of Spring
He went through the motions
Of planting and existing
Oh how Beltane had hurt!
Through Summer's searing heat
While it baked him and the earth
Until the end of October,
And the feasts of Thanks.
He waited.
Under the Oak she had loved.
Under the Oak where she rested.
He sat in the tree's strong shadow
Raked hard by his memories.
Ravenged by his loneliness.
Thinking of his wife
His lover and friend
Who lay sleeping under the Oak
He waited.
And watched.
Watching the sun set
Waiting.
The Autumn mists began to form.
Whispering tendrils over the moor.
Then the figures began to come forth.
As the feasts of Samhaim called
And they living beckoned
To their loved ones for the night
That the living and the dead
Could rejoice in and of each other
And to ease the pain of both.
Bonfires were lit
And music played.
And he sat quietly
Patently waiting under her Oak.
The mist came to lap at his feet,
As if it was also a part of the living.
And through the mists shimmering silver glow
She appeared.
Pale golden hair feathered by the breeze,
Long gown clinging to her
She knelt in front of him, and caressed his face
with ethereal fingers.
The touch like spider silk
Her smile like the Oak she loved
Warm, comforting, enduring.
And he cried.
Then she fully came to him.
Lithe body filling his arms
And he held her to him
Tears falling away
Replaced by the smells, of the earth
And the trees
Of her.
Without words, they lay
naked in the moonlight
Letting the mists blanket them
Nestled in the root bed of the Oak
With the ground as their mattress
They made love
First of November
With Autumn in full reign
He was found sitting there
Under her Oak
And he didn't move
To his companions, didn't speak
Only smiled in silence
His dead eyes looking
Across the moor
At the retreating mists
Watching two shadows
Slip quietly to sleep.
