My sisters on the other side of the globe will honour the spirits come All Hallows Eve when winter comes and the new Celtic year begins. Here, there is only me. The locals think I am an eccentric, playing witch to shock them. What fools they all are to have forgotten that when the descendants of the Celts migrated here, so too did their spirit ancestors.
It is May Eve, not November Eve, when the restless spirits wander this ancient red land in search of welcome. My altar is ready, the circle cast. I can feel the change in seasonal tides flow through my blood. It is time.
Raising my arms, I welcome the walking dead to my table. I have not forgotten.

© Alison Pearce 2008