I make sense only to myself

May's ardent witchery

A quiet Bealltainn, where the fiercest fire burns within.

My rites were pocketing bright white quartz and planting a gentle kiss on blackthorn blossoms. Tears of dew rolled back across my lip, as though all the earth hungers for is tenderness. I stood soaked, my own teardrop, at the lip of the gorge. Mist and wonder cloaked the river’s thunder far below.

Two nights on, two miles downstream, I poured a libation of milk into the dark, bubbling waters. Simple ceremonies that scorched an old skin to cinders. Arise from the rocks. Queen hereafter, even in a stained and shoddy coat. Stir the ashes with a piece of bone, and find the parts of the past worth salvaging.

The moss is soft and green.

The earth is soft and dark.

My soul is soft, and green, and dark.

I make sense only to myself, who I summon with foam-white quartz and a glug of milk that streams upon the ebony river like a pall of silk.

We are ritual creatures. Fires and yellow flowers cleanse and protect us. The truth spills forth faster than ink can dry, faster than my tongue can translate. Sweet spells unfold from the soul with ardent witchery.

What bright incantations will you whisper to the world this May?

Kate xx