Brush of Wings

Feeling the brush of the great dark Wings this morning… shedding tears, cherishing memories, praying to the Old Ones who know my heart… the Mighty One draws near for one I love.

The Witch’s Farewell

The Mighty One approaches, yet I have no fear
Save only that which nature dignifies.
To cling to life is good, and honourable the tear
By which I bless the ruin that about me lies.
An awesome presence fills the room and lo,
The Mighty One is here!

There is a blood-red glory pulsing darkly bright
Where on His forehead gleams the jewel of power.
His great, black wings cast shadows where there is no light.
Yet in His hand He holds a lovely snow-white flower
Plucked where immortal golden apples grow,
In Mari’s silver bower.

Farewell, dear friends and loved ones, I must take my leave
To wander through the Summerland a while,
Think not of me as dead when you have ceased to grieve;
I shall grow young again beneath Her radiant smile
That floods all Heaven with a moon-day glow,
Where age cannot defile.

—Victor Anderson

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