Grandmother pulls her shroud and the rains, the warm rains, it rains inside this endless cup of grey. Grandfather blows his crisp leavesand the smell, the earthly smell, the smell brings me to myself. Tis the blessed season of endless twilight, of richly dressed sunrises,of memories fine, memories drawn, memories, ancient borne,come from the crack of the horizon. … Continue reading Perching Before Samhain