At evening the autumn woodlands ring With deadly weapons. Over the golden plains And lakes of blue, the sun More darkly rolls. The night surrounds Warriors dying and the wild lament Of their fragmented mouths. Yet silently there gather in the willow combe Red clouds inhabited by an angry god, Shed blood, and the chill of the moon. All roads lead to black decay. Under golden branching of the night and stars A sister's shadow sways through the still grove To greet the heroes' spirits, the bloodied heads. And softly in the reeds Autumn's dark flutes resound. O prouder mourning! - You brazen altars, The spirit's hot flame is fed now by a tremendous pain: The grandsons, unborn.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."