This year though I miss the equinox GoB day, as this vertigo virus still has me and is shaking me around like a rag-doll (or perhaps corn-doll – the traditional icon made from the last of the golden straw to celebrate the harvest, and remind us in dark times of the returning cycle of the sun).
So Sunday comes and I can't even get out of bed without falling against the walls, knocking over chairs, and generally feeling out of it. I have to try and get hold of people, outdoors in the rain as there's no mobile signal indoors where I'm staying, propping myself against the wall and hoping I won't throw up. Three people, I know, have come from over 100 miles to do this day – but there is nothing I can do – and I'm not good at feeling helpless, let alone at resting. So I'm interested that I have no option but to be still, when I am so longing to be out there on Dartmoor leading some quiet and some writing time. (I remember too being ill at the vernal equinox, though it didn't stop me doing the day.)
This morning, I managed to walk out towards the heart of the moor and the morning. Here are some photos, and a poem sequence from last autumn equinox.
There are times when love seems a rare beast –
pangolin, or griffin – mythic at the edges
of vision, visitor from a world unvisited
the glimpse a benison for all that might yet be
and whose knowing might undo us completely
if we could but let it in.
Later, in the mist, rowanberries glimmer like fireflies;
up here at Four Winds I am unstrung,
the beads of me scattered to all directions.
The equinox, my birthday and a full moon
bringing, at last, a closure to the turbulence
of this solar cycle. In this high rush of air
the ancient beech shivers off her leaves,
and, heedless of motorbikes, trucks on the road,
the yellow house, the currency of thought,
the moon lifts her owl-bone-white rim
over the moor’s horizon where we sip
at the autumn dusk, let it all remake us.
The full moon hangs in the pale sky like a revelation
awaiting its time. There are times when I know that
love might mean beginning over and over
and again. And how I’ll do that.
Once, in the future, I knew my way back.
The light beyond the forest
On the hill, dusk is the colour of violets.
© Roselle Angwin 2010