Here in Denver today we're having our first snowstorm of the season. Heavy, wet, clinging to the leaves which haven't yet fallen (which is most of them - only a few of the ash trees are sensibly bare), bending them over under their icy burden. If the temperature inches up another degree or two, much of it will probably drop off, but for now I keep a watch and occasionally go out with a broom to shake the roses, the young maples, and the drooping rowan tree. The cats are not happy today; they want out, but don't like it when they get there.
Yesterday was warm, dry, and sunny - "the warm before the storm" we call it. This snow won't last; in a day or two it will be gone, and we'll be back to mild autumn for a while longer. It's a reminder, though, that winter is on its way: the dark half of the year starts at Samhain. Winter in Gwernin's time was not the pleasure that some people find it today, but rather something to get through, hopefully alive. The lord in his hall might be happy enough, with a roaring fire and plenty of food, but then as now the poor man suffered, and some of the poetry reflects this.
The dark half of the year is the time for stories, and I am taking thought to my next book, The Ash Spear.
But that's a post for another day.
-GRG
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