Autumn she stirs in my blood, calling to the old one in me.
Longing for the times of bonfires, dancing and chanting.
Times of harvest, and OLD MAGYK.
She comes, ever so quietly at first, than with a rush of wild passion.
She whispers of times past, and moments to come.
Yet never quite revealing her mysteries.
I wake to the knowing in this time and space.
Feeling the silk webbed veil slide across my face.
The mists between the worlds are thin, enough to pass through,
come little one, I wait for you.