Samhain Poem by Tom Billsborough

Now is the evening of Samhain,
The last one of the dying fall,
When the flushed woodlands
Echo the setting sun and the red fires
Which glow in homage to the dead.
Samhaim! Samhaim! This time
Recalls all who have gone before.
The time when membranes
Of our souls stretch out
As thinly as the sea's skin,
And osmosis of the spirit
Lets us plunge below
Into this other space
Where space is meaningless
To greet lost friends and ancestors.
It may well be that,
In our heightened states,
The whispers that we hear,
Are nothing but the soughing of the wind
Sucking from the trees each falling leaf.
But our belief, indeed our faith, remains
That we shall meet the dead again.
And for this reason now,
We light the candles for the ritual.
The first is red to represent the season,
The next three candles, grouped together,
Red and black and white in colour
Recall all aspects of our Goddess Queen.
The last one white to symbolise the hearth.
And now the Mother, robed in red,
Takes the bread and offers some to each
Who form the circle, kneeling down before
The inner circle and the altar.
Says she: "Take this and have sufficiency
In the coming Winter's days."
And then the Maid, robed all on white,
Will offer purifying salt
To guard their victuals and their health.
And then the Crone, robed all in black,
Will offer wine to make their spirits strong,
Through the long tracks of winter nights.
Now everyone will rise and feast
On roasted pork with apple sauce,
And herbs and other food
And raise a cup of wine to toast
The spirits which surround them in the wood.
Let all rejoice and blessed be.