Pry open and revel in the last moments, the velvet petals of these late halcyon days, when hours drip away in the juice of wild black raspberries and black currants gleaned from the gloaming, and moths rise like stars with silver-powdered wings from the shadowed grass. Then, there, under the night sky, where the blackness shifts to the indigo memory of the Moon in the warp and weft on the loom of the Heavens, and loose threads hang down braiding themselves with my hair, owls floating in and out of those tethers, and nighthawks call, I watch the dancing stars hide behind a veil of cloud, and feel the temperature drop as imperceptibly as a stone’s breath. The Wind Gods ascend. The time has come.
Four Watchtowers. Four chambers of the heart. Four bowls. Milk and Water. Wine and Blood. Dark Moon offerings. Quartz crystals buried at the feet of wolfsbane, under the shroud of night, drawing in what it’s putting out. Magic bell held between Jupiter finger and thumb, its body and sound encaved in the dome of my hand, as though cupped in an ear. It sings my invocation to the 7 Great Queens. Artemis. Athena. Circe. Hekate. Lilith. Medusa. The Mórrígan. Candles sputter and cast their spell, cast hieroglyphics on the wall. Ancient curse. Black wand of ancient wood plucked from the depths of a bog’s abyss of the Dead, raised. Black amber the size of my hand, more ancient still. Black tourmaline and a black kyanite spear. These are desperate times that call for Dark measures. Somewhere, outside, a dog barks and the black dog answers. Black Moon Magic. The time has come.
(artwork by Marjorie Cameron)