Crones, Pomegranates, Pumpkins and Mead

Light’s Black Majesty, Midnight Sun: Lord of the wild and living stars: Soul of Magic and master of Death; Panther of Night… enfold me.

Take me, dark Shining One; mingle my being with you, Prowl in my spirit with deep purring joy, Live in me. Giver of terror and ecstasy, touch me with tongues of black fire. Night, freakish night sets me free !

Rosaleen Norton

Ssssshhhh……The Witch is in……she came knocking and I let her in….lit some incense and gave her some rum…. put candles on the mantle…. orange and pumpkin spice…and she decorated the kitchen…..she said she’s staying too! Mad Witch spells abound……. bold cackles in the night…aaah I am in my Hallowed Home time of year….snuggling by a roaring fire….. Magick always brewing…..,


Witches rule at Halloween. The veil is thin and spririts are at play. Cool winds blow as orange and red leaves whirl from trees, crunching under feet. The scent of the Wild Ones about. A time of mystery and resonant with Wild Magic. Blackbirds fly, companions of Witches. 

We can say that Halloween is the marking of an important crossroads, into winter, and into darker nights.


In Celtic mythology, this dayworld shift is mirrored by another cross-roads, a time when the waking world and the Otherworld, the realm of the dead, intersect and so Halloween was also known as Puca Night.

Pookas would watch over graveyards and would punish those who disrespected the dead. Sometimes Pookas could be felt but not seen, and would move about town causing mishaps.  They also sometimes appeared as humans with animal features.

Channeling the spirits of
Autumn in the challenging 
Heat. Be gone soon so candy corn and pumpkin spice may


Samhain; when the barrier between the worlds is thin and easily crossed.   Witches and sorcerers were more powerful on this night than any other night.  The night would be filled with ghosts of the dead, faeries, shapeshifters, lesser demons, and all sorts of feral magickal beasts.

Winds rattle still-naked tree branches; the edges of dark and foreboding clouds are aglow in the moonlight.

Things slip through, ghosts are walking, and those who are in the know are casting spells and divining the future and there are bonfires.

Some fly to the meeting places on their brooms or forks, others turn themselves into cats, goats, horses, and toads for the journey, some leave their bodies and attend the meeting in spirit, while others cover their bodies with a secret ointment to grow bat wings so they can fly to the gathering. In their place, they leave a vicarium daemonem, their demonic double. It doesn’t matter which method is used for traveling, as long as the meeting is honored by everyone’s presence.

They gather just before midnight at crossroads, mountain tops, and in forests, they light a roaring bonfire which they jump through and dance around, until their Horned God arrives in their middle and the true Night of the Witches begins.  

Dark revels are about on this night. Don your masks so that you may join in the celebrations, trick the spirits into believing you are one of them, because truly, on Samhain you are.

The world was a blanket of fog… and cold…. and the rythm of Samhain rang loud…and her Bloodness for company 🎃❣🌙🍂🍁🗝

The gates of the Witches are cracking open…. 

In the middle of a field in a lesser known part of Ireland is a large mound occupied by sheep.

Considered by the ancient Celts to be a passage between Ireland and its devil-infested “otherworld,” Oweynagat (pronounced “Oen-na-gat” and meaning “cave of the cats”) was the birthplace of Samhain, the ancient roots of Halloween, buried beneath the farmland of Ireland’s County Roscommon.

That murky, subterranean dimension, also known as Tir na nog (“Teer-na-nohg”), was inhabited by Celtic devils, fairies, and leprechauns. During Samhain, some of these demons escaped via Oweynagat cave.

In the deep scent of Midnight

In the secret Colour above and beneath the spectrum is life

In the wild laughter of chaos

In the moonlit houses and night lit streets

In the seed of secrets,

The still core of silence, is life.

Rosaleen Norton

Do see The Witch Of Kong’s Cross for a delicious fire for your muse.

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