By Nicola McLean

Standing still, a rock with time the river that smooths my edges, wears me down. Seasons pass, and I achieve nothing, caught between ‘what if’ and ‘what’s the point.’

Meanwhile, the wheel keeps turning inexorably onward.

Yule, the longest night, the silent night.

The world hunkered down, but expectant, anticipating light’s rebirth.

Imbolc. I pretend I’m hibernating while, secretly, I’m stagnating. On the cusp, even the sun stands still.

Onward the wheel turns. Ostara brings equilibrium, until light defeats dark, an eternal cycle.

With Beltane, the earth awakens fully as winter gives way to spring, fecund with possibility.

Yet, I remain impossibly stuck, infertile thoughts grounding me.

My stillness lost in the union of earth and sky, reminiscences of maiden memories alight in the bright glow of nature’s fire.

I dream of fireflies, taking flight to far off lands.

The wheel turns. The crops grow, summer’s fertile life bursts forth from nature’s womb.

Choices made, regrets plentiful yet none, too soon Litha’s longest day turns to harvest moon.

After Lammas, darkness creeps in to reclaim his throne, dancing in circles with ever weakening light.

The wheel turns. Mabon.

A moment of balance until light curtsies and fades.

Then darkness reigns, in shades of red and gold.

I mourn the passing of the summer, the passing of my life just so many revolutions of the wheel.

We reap what we sow, I reflect.

The wheel turns. the year grows old, it falls, leaves wither and die.

Samhain, the crone’s time, wiseblood¬ – though I don’t feel wise.

Behind the thinnest veil, the dead cry warnings,

‘Memento mori!’

I want to truly live first. circling me.