Falling, falling, the leaves are falling,
In hues of orange, gold and red.
Wind through the trees, winter calling,
All that now lives will soon seem dead.
Misty mornings, damp and chill,
Steel grey skies that set the mood.
The birds overhead cry sharp and shrill,
As they gather up the plentiful food.
Small creatures filling up their stores
To see them through the dark and cold
We all must obey Mother Natures laws
It has been this way since days of old.
And as we watch, the wheel is turning
Away from Summer, towards Winter’s pain.
But not all is sorrow for soon we’ll be yearning,
To feel the warmth, the fires of Samhain.
The pumpkins are carved, the lamps are lit,
Outside the grove the excitement is high
We stand there robed as we gather the kit.
We write our worries, only we know why.
The Cailleach comes under cover of dark,
To strip away all the debris and rot.
Our circle is drawn and we gather together to mark
The end of Summer, though its not forgot.
Our dear departed join us, the veil is thin,
We invite them through the Northern gate again.
Our ancestors of blood and bone rush in
As we honour them at the feast of Samhain.
Diane Worthington 2013