Mabon

Mabon and the windows are steamed up in the morning, the children have hot chocolate before school tucked under blankets. My legs are no longer bare to the wind and grass, there are now rows of sodden coats drying slowly in the hall. The cottage is warmer inside than outside, still holding summer in the stones, but soon I will be gathering wood in my baskets to bring indoors instead of flowers. This time of year I was heavy with child both times, holding my bundles to me at Mabon and Samhain. This year there is no belly and no bundle, my arms are full of eggs and kittens and my husband's warmth. The icy breath of the goddess moves across the land, drawing lovers back to the hearth and I love her for it. Birdsong and the whispers of the dead. All return to her.