Montol is a week passed. My blood imperceptably reacts to the incremental growth of the new born sun/son. The Blue Moon of 2009 haunts my wakeing world, as much as my dreamtime. How potent and swollen was she? Hoisting her mighty glowing face above the hill in the East. I listened. The scuffling of the fox in the hedge,stalking tiny mammals in the powdery snow. The Moon mother illuminates the wide horizon like a phosphorescent globe, the countryside bathed in a fine blue shimmer. This is the landscape of the omen, the portent. All is symbol, for shapes are decernable, colour and context is not.
Sailing by the stars, yet out shining their sparks, she floats in the Maryblue heaven, her course true and finite, her purpose as the Queen of Tides, resolute and ageless. Snow flakes drift like ash from a paper fire, small spells landing upon the icy field walls, wishes and dreams sent through the veil at this portal in the turning year
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