Toast to the Ancestors
The ancestors have trod the paths
our feet are treading now.
They’ve known the same
ecstatic joys,
wept with self-same sighs.
Heed their softly whispered words,
knowledge from the wise.
Hear it in the sighing of the trees
blowing in the breeze,
in the patter of raindrops falling.
Hear it calling.
To those who came before us,
and those who came before them,
we raise this cup in honour of your lives.
When Samhain Steps In
When the veils are thin,
Swift growing grain has been scythed to the ground
so autumn takes over where summer leaves off.
September sets to and ripens the fruit,
daughters of trees that watch over us all,
rosy red apples and brightness of rowan
make festive the roads that lead to the woods.
October drifts in with the final light touch
of soft morning mists that blur out blue day,
dew bejewelled cobwebs that glisten the way,
trees clad in dresses fast slipping away.
Samhain steps in as day loses light
and the veils stretch thin for those with the sight.
So raise up a glass to those who have gone,
Keep memories alive that won’t fade with the sun.
Written by Portland Jones