You feet step softly over round hills and apple orchards of Glastonbury Avalon. Here is where the otherworld kisses the human world, where the world beyond whispers sweet nothings to us, enchanting us into the magic of the celtic world of Avalon.
Listen to the soft sighing of the trees, the rushing tumble of a stream as it falls upon sacred stone.
Smell the deep scent of the damp earth, the debris of another spectacular year returning to ground. Hear the faded trees sighing in the autumn wind, the evening conversation of the crows from their nests far up in the ash trees, and the patchwork quilt of auburn, russet, golden and ochre leaves that line your pathway. See the tumble of ash and sycamore seeds at your feet, and watch a blackbird rustling through the leaf litter in search of a tasty treat.
Look up to the sky: see it painted with shades of soft amethyst and indigo, the golden light of the setting sun painting the cold sky in luminous tones of rose and violet.
Breathe in the cold autumn air, the stillness, the scent of the damp trees in the evening dusk.
Who steps through the darkening twilight, softly stirring the leaves underfoot?
Who is this lady, cloaked and hooded in midnight blue, who shines with the light of the stars?
Whose power calls to you through the portal of the evening, when the veils between the worlds are thinnest?
Her name is Morgana le Fey, and she is the Goddess of these isles.
Her very presence whispers of magic and mystery, of hidden wisdom and great secrets yet to be revealed. You catch your breath, and feel a rising swirl of energy in your solar plexus, a warmth in your gut, a spiralling tide of excitement: She is calling to you.
She walks towards you, her thick cloak swishing on the fallen leaves as her bare feet pick a path. Her cloak parts ever so slightly to reveal a sliver of her luminescent gown beneath, the colours of twilight ever shifting through the layers of silk.
You see her shining face beneath her cloak, a face framed by rivers of soft raven hair, braided and loose. You see her clear, clever eyes, shining violet in the twilight. You see stars upon her brow – a delicate crown, luminous and crystalline, that denotes her queenship over the land you are a guest in. You see her inviting lips twitch in a seductive half-smile as she catches your eye.
Is she a benevolent goddess? Does she gift us with abundance, with strength, with sacred knowing and spiritual ecstasy?
Or is she a sorceress, a queen of the darkness, a warrior queen who holds your deepest fears and shame in her white hands and squeezes till they run red with blood?
In a heartbeat, the spell is broken: Morgana glides down the path past you, receding into the earth-scented dusk, under the shadowed apple trees and into the mists that envelop the orchards of this sacred isle.
You take a breath.
You notice that twilight is passing: the colours of sunset are fading into the deep indigo of night, and faraway stars glint in the heavens.
Night has fallen.