Another year is dead. The fields and trees are bare. Whatever is left after today belongs to the Earth, to the fey, to the restless dead. Call it last harvest, Samhain, Hallowe'en or nothing at all but the chill in the air is the same, the curtain falling faster and more thickly every night, enhancing the cold, distant light of the stars and moon. Mother Earth grieves for her dead Son/Lover who gives his life so the She may be renewed. Demeter wanders the world looking for her stolen daughter and nothing grows. She has thrown aside her finery and dresses instead in tattered rags. Soon the Earth will be covered in a still white blanket, a funeral shroud of silence. Tonight, in the rain and dark, around the children scampering from light to light, in the shadows between houses and hedges, the beloved dead have returned. What is remembered lives.
The Nameless One