Down where hard roads meet with driven expanses, the last of the wayfarers go. Forgotten items that memory deemed unfortunate are left to collect the sands of time. By thousandth time the moon has risen, to cool the weary feet; wonders are that so many travel by the sun. It is less to guess at the doings of man, hardened faces by the winds of yesteryear. We gather at the dusk of day, and lay down a troubled head upon a troubled road. In the opening breathe of the dark, out blooms the petals of memory. For wanderers as I, their blooms are stared at with eyes of solitude.

A path of never ending shades of grey, looking for the stark contrast of an easier path, but never taking it because that is not the destiny. A path of real truth and wisdom is never found in the fields of memory, or in the towers of knowledge, but in the heart of living stone, fastidious and clear of reason, where only those who face betrayal and apathy with strength and resilience may meet. In this living stone one may find the light of another, but harsher is the fog, and more painful the chilling rain. Out on the road where these stone hearts do wander, they understand they come from the halls of Babylon.

Forbidden and cold, and yet great in deed and honor, the people leave little time for truth of matters. Rushing, winning, fighting, and moving along to the beats of many drums, the skies cloud with the souls of so many little lights. There is no time to stop, there is no time to contemplate the aging and growing of the soul, and they hurt, and there is pain, and it is forgotten. Those who leave Babylon can only understand the instances of the moment when one realizes, there is but little in the ways of many. Out to wander in the further halls of the world, they do meet, if but a few, and wander together and wander apart, keeping the living stone that grew in the parting from Babylon.

Out in the sparse fields that grow in the far off sands of time, a wayfarer may lay down with another, by happen chance to meet, and contemplate the souls of forever time. A small smile, a brush of the hand,perhaps a sweet kiss, but then the winds call them away again, in search of truth, in search of contemplation, in search of permanence in a world with no time. And although much has been lost, so much is gained in the small moments of a wayfarer meet, and by and by shall meet again, if only to remember, all that we left in Babylon.

Sometimes I think about the Cailleach, the ageless one, the woman who is the Washer at the Ford. Sometimes I think about how it would be in her presence, and then I remember that she is always there. Out of the corner of my eye she sits, in the shadow of every tree. When the day grows darker and becomes that twilight, she dances in the dusky horizon. As the day dawns, as the darkness breaks and the iridescent blue hues open up to the lightening sky, she is dancing down the sidewalk, following the tide of shadows. I think about quiet mornings and soft evenings, I think about the shadows of the day, high noon as the sun burns, and the cool air under a tree, her presence is there. I think about these things, and it comforts me. Although the Cailleach knows my death and the Cailleach knows the agony of my heart, she is also the rebirth of me, the renewal of what I am. In her presence I feel the dance for life, for all that I am, for all that I have been, and all that I should be. I dance for her. She is in the secret of my heart. She is the goddess of what is hidden from me. She is the one that is hard to speak of, because she the closest to my truth. I want to know her more and yet she is the harshest to look at. I think about her in these times when my heart pains, when it’s difficult to breathe, my heart pounds, and I shake. I think about her when I feel the blood beneath my skin, when I feel my skeleton most keenly, and the earth beneath me. When I feel the deepest fear, she is there. I think of her and I am fine. Yet, she is the one who takes no altar, who wants no offerings. She is simply there and waits. All she wants is the memory of that and I am hers.

Cailleach
It is you I cry to as the cold bites my face
It is you, only you, who soothes my weathered skin
Sometimes when I stand tall, I shudder
You stand behind me, but for you I do not falter
In the dusk I stare into the dim, by your eyes I perceive

Didge, by only your leave do you hear a name
Wise, fortune, sorceress, nun, owl, veiled one, hag, all cling to you
It is in your ageless wonder, that the woman is felt, Sheela Na Gig
The birth of you, from the folds of Danu’s lips, a sense of self
Shape us from your ancient hills, give us valleys to caress
Breasts to lift our daughters tall, legs of solid rock left from your wicker
Make our faces stone, beautiful and hard, to face the harsh sun of Summer love
Then give us wings to beat the storm on high, land upon your frozen staff, deep inside our souls

Milucra, by your leave I kneel to you in hidden skin
Queen of Winter, Brighde’s kin, Old woman, wearer of the Snow Plaid, all the strength is yours
It is in you we find our being, that the child learns to bleed, Sheela Na Gig

Your lament on the children, in your cycles of youth, ancestress of many
My hope lies in finding you within myself, to know your strength, to feel your years
I do fear your presence in my house, but I dare not avoid taking you within
All must know your silent words; all must know the feel of our bones
As your men died of old age, you took them to the ford, and you watch your grandsons grow

Bui, by your leave I lay down on your hills in blood from within
Keeper of the stones of spring, One who opens the veil of realms, Midwife of Death
It is you who mirrors our deepest soul, ancestress of my soul, Sheela Na Gig

Washer at the Ford, standing with your feet deep into the roots
Stars thickening as you draw the veil of dusk around you
Kiss my mind with frost so that it may lull me to sleep
In the dark of my closed eyes, I dance for you, as I shake and my heart pounds
As my cells die, my fear dies, and I’m reborn each moment, in each new breath 

We race to meet death at the appointed time

Death is kind but keeps a pocket watch

We rush past, and walk away, and walk toward it

Somehow still meeting her when needed

The toothbrush sitting wet on the countertop

Need to clean the faucet

Where is that cloth?

It’s never there when needed

People take that last breath when you least expect it

It comes as swiftly as the rain when the sun was just shining

We don’t know, we never know, but it’s never expected

Even when it is

You have to tie your shoes, and brush your hair

Don’t forget to eat some vegetables

The trash bag is heavy in your hand

And the light bulb goes out above the stove

We cook food, we buy it premade

We stare at the shelves lined with color and bright lights

We play games, we listen to music and others laughing

We pet our cats, we clean their litter boxes, and stare at open cupboards

The slow wait for death to come

The sudden message that’s he’s here

The people left behind, we know they are gone

But we look over and still wait for those eyes to open

The driving on autopilot, the glaring lights in our eyes

The white noise of the road droning on and on

The music station turned on but volume turned off

Parking, sitting there staring out the window, unable to move

Sometimes death comes without notice

And other times without closure

And nothing is there but a silent phone

And nothing is there but tears and some ashes

Off to work in the wind and rain

Smile under all the strain

Pretend we’re okay as we say it’s fine

I don’t suppose they would care the need

Anger comes quickly, and tears often spring

And for others the day goes on like normal, but festers deep inside

We yell and we speak softly

We say strange things, and forget we ever said them

Our love lies dead on the bed, growing colder by the minute

Answer all the phone calls

Reply to every letter

Click each button

Write each smile, with every frown

Endless Euphemisms, repetitive cliches

Smile and hug, cry alone in bed

That pain in the middle of the chest

It ebbs and flows, unceasing

Pour soap on in each pot

Run the water until it’s hot

Run the water, run it continuously

Stare at the soap running down the metal

Words that mean nothing, but sound like everything

Time moves when we let it, and yet remains the same

They say, “Say all you can now, cause tomorrow is never promised”

But really, “Do what you can now, because tomorrow comes all too soon.”

Take the neat and clean urn and place it on the table

Wipe down the picture and place just next to it

Let the tears flow and smile at the person in the frame

Forever in the memories, forever in the stories to be passed on

We meet death in all her forms

We meet death as we try to avoid him

We meet death with relief and with a wet smile

We hold onto everything and death releases all their pain