Ashes scattered like seeds in that cycle that is onward, upward, upward, caught between the ground and the sky. You ask, ‘isn’t there more?’ Well isn’t there? Ash and earth, what precious things from dust, forming silence from whispers.

The old ones come as the old ones will. They come in the quiet; they come like flow, in the arc and twist of smoke, in the billowing of cloth on the breeze. They come branching, curving in their way that grows through, treading these ancient pathways of natural law. This is how they come; this is how they are called. Arriving, drawn towards the magnetic pull. Like drawing like, following the path of least resistance, following the river and its steady stream. The fortune of the undertow.

It comes from here; the base, the centre, the heart of creation, pulling form, seat of strength. The foundation, the key stone, is here. Flowerlike, you have seen it. But where there is shame there can be no free flow. These are the sacred places of the Goddess. This is where we draw from; this is the seat of power. Magnetic pull and pulse, like a moon reflected in a silver chalice. Like an opening flower that knows only the light of darkness.