The Homecalling
| Taliesin Wordweaver |
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Written for the Winter Solstice of the First Year of Plague:
I give you this gift: it comes from my gut, A song I send, it seeks your ears and holds a hope to share with your heart. ... Winter's weight of darkness wields A heavy hand. Hard is the night, Dim is the dawn, and harsh the day Freckled with frost, frozen in time. The leaves that released the branch to lie In huddled heaps on the hoary ground are whipped by wind, dispersed and worn. The setting sun luridly sinks into ravenous reds and raven darkness. Time has tilled the earth and taken The harvest. We hurry for home, unsettled. The Solstice sends a silent call. We hear in our heads the crackling hearth, we feel as a phantom the warmth of family, we taste the tempting foods of the table, we dream of the drinks we drained together. The cold is calling us back to camp. Weary, we wait for winter to end, when autumn's elegy has yet to echo. Impatient, we pace a pilgrim's cell, and trace a trail of faith by attrition. Lonely, we lie like leaves of a book unread, unwritten, a record of boredom. Hungry, we hunker in empty halls, for feasting is fulsome when family is absent. This night has been known: the gnosis is ancient. For time beyond telling, the wheel has turned. The spokes shall spin around and spill light and laughter again on the land. |
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