Mabon

Between last Sunday and yesterday, we have put away our sandals and taken out or coats.  The Ember days have shut the door on the threshold of the season.  There is no going back now.  It is well and truly autumn.  Leaves turn like costume jewelry and the blackberries ripen in abundance.  Everywhere smells of woodsmoke, fairy fog, leafmeal, and dying summer.  I'm not prepared.  The autumn equinox, then, is a wake-up call for the sleepy summer dreamer.  The seagulls huddle in the wind on the roofs of houses.  A big raven overlooked us walking down from Mass.  The horse chestnut tree fans out its leaf-flames and is dropping conkers.  We feel the absence of light in the corners of evening, creeping in earlier and earlier.  Soon, the ghosts will wake up and moan noisily in the hollows.