A night walk: late autumn in New England |
Approaching All Hallows Eve Strolling westward slowly into the dark labyrinth of the year, only my dog and I and the stars are out to walk tonight. September's choir of crickets has lapsed - just one voice still speaks, lonely and bleak from the shriveled grass as we go by. The half moon dangles in the holy, wholly blue-black sky; lamplight from warm windows spills like frosty breath; the rumbling of a passing train echoes off the distant, stripped-down hills. Soon enough we will arrive at autumn's hallowed center: already we have put aside our wistfulness at summer's end. Now what matters is that we stride with open senses into the lengthening night: that we permit the year's Hag time to touch us with searching, dry, unsparing fingers, laying Her wise bones against our hearts. We brave the cold to watch Her spin a web of stars across the naked dark; we listen to the rustle of withered hopes and passions as they stir inside of hearts long silent, but close beside us here. The veil between the worlds is silk; the keen and pungent Northern air stings us with restlessness and draws our tears. Dry leaves scuttle across the street: whispers of the journeys which we have made before. And walking home beneath the stars, we go accompanied by those who travel still. Sarah Unsworth MacMillan 1985/2009 |