I would miss the beauties of nature the most, especially those of a lunar variety…
The Moon, waxing, imperfect gem in a nest of Aurora Borealis-coloured silk, showed off its finery in a sky brightened by cold cloud and nascent full lunar light, orange, blue, purple and green swatches rippling in splendour of wintry fabric.
Entranced, I drove – seeing, later, road prickling with the shine of proto-ice. The breath of hedgerow watchers stung the air. I felt the unseen magic of hares, my totemic creatures.
Now Jack Frost has come, speckling the blue sky with chilly white ejaculate, orgasmic pearls white-washing the garden hutch’s lid, seeding the womb of the Earth with winter’s dark embryo.
Gaia’s belly will swell with the icy fecundity of sun-brief times, as last leaves embroider the still, quiet places with crackling gold, and seeping black trunks, dozing in the richness of hibernating soil, sip nutrients and wait, death in life and life in death.
And I, curled deep in my chair, and surrounded by the bare branches and cold greyness of emotional winter, feel a tentative stirring within: A knock, from the Higher Self, upon the Portals of Sadness.
Winter-born myself, I come alive at this time of year, delight in its strange beauty and festive excitement. Toy Box Yule rituals from years gone by bring warmth and happiness and broad smiles. Golden holly berries, found in the deep snow of Weston woods with my best friend many years ago, ignite a fire of longing.
The long trek to the Underworld has been inevitable: Like Persephone, summarily dragged by Hades, I had little choice. But, when the Earth’s long labour pushes out the squalling infant of spring, my spirit too shall return – and, though exhausted, ripped and bloody from my own metaphorical birthing, I shall be free once more.