Grave Hecate turns our darkest thoughts this blackest night to fertile hopes. We burn three candles to honor her and brighten our desires to a gleam. Eight voices murmur and proclaim our love of Goddess and of God and call, with stumbling laughter, the Fey, the Kindly Ones to join. While Sainte Colombe and Peter Gabriel dance up Salisbury Hill in a slow gavotte, tender lips, in perfect trust and love, kiss away my hunger and my thirst. Afterward, the stars -- and For Sale signs. Scorpio's sting forbids too sure a grip. Both death and sex seem beyond my grasp, a stub of candle all that still remains.
[Home Page | Other Articles in This Issue | FAQ | Local Resources]