Chapter 1
The glory of the three, three in one, maiden, mother, crone. Sword and wand and pentacle, altar carved from stone.
Crops are gathered, harvest home, before the blowing of Cailleach's storms. With voice and pipes, drums and horns we gather in the hall and raise the song of the pagan born.
Ice is in the valley and the snow is at the door but the fire warms us at the hearth while the mead is being poured.
Spirits invited answer the call, ancestor's table prepared and loved ones gone with the sands of time return as memories are shared.
Maiden's dance to the winter gods, mother suckles newborn son and grandmothers at the fireside tell tales from when they were young.
Laughter rings and ballads are sung as we celebrate through the night and at midnight Samhain's bells are rung and The Morrigan's raven takes flight.
Maiden to mother, mother to crone the cycle continues on and our prayers for the coming year are carried to the gods on the wings of our pagan song.
So as the sun sets on another year lift your goblets high and drink a toast with me, to friends and family near and far and the glory of the three.
