by Janine Phillips
The Cailleach slipped in quietly during the night,
tapping at my window to let me know that she’d arrived.
With long gnarled nails she drummed against the glass,
fierce whispers on the wind as she claimed the land at last.
The Old Hag called my name, echoing, beckoning in the dark.
So I slipped on my robe, put on the kettle, and we chatted ‘til morning dawned.
I recanted all the highs and lows, the twists and turns of the year;
of summer’s golden, emboldened days, of lakes and rivers soothing and clear.
I spoke about my travels far, of friends and family seen,
of memories made and vows of love, of all I’d hoped and dreamed.
We spoke of those who’ve Crossed the Veil, no longer on this earth;
how the cycle of Life promises that with death there comes rebirth.
Then she bent her crooked finger, calling me to her side,
and whispered in my ear, “Well done,” and held me as I cried.
She dried my cheeks with her apron, holding me to her breast,
humming her winter song of healing as snow blew in from the West.
All about us the morning howled, the fire crackled fierce and warm,
as another night passed away and another day was born.
Janina Grey 