Brazen Folk Horror

In the Northern Hemisphere, the year’s Harvest Moon is the full moon closest to Autumn Equinox. This year the Moon graces the earth with her sunlit radiance in the dark on September 10th. She knows how to take centre stage effortlessly, and we all look up.

There’s no difference between this moon and her other appearances within the year. However, those autumn and winter moons inspire a mysticism unrivalled by the lighter months. Of course, her presence signals practical needs in the harvesting calendar and the spiritual. It’s been known throughout Europe as the Harvest Moon since at least 1706. It is also called Corn Moon, Song Moon, Wine Moon and Barley Moon.

From my childhood in the suburbs, those early adult years skipping between the city and countryside, to village life, I’ve always taken pause to look up. Not because of a name, any gathering or community—I’ve never been much part of such things. I’m being pulled by a chord, craning to see beyond my scope down here on my ant farm.

There’s a timeless, naturalistic, divine, spiritual connection that stretches through our entire time on this rock that draws us to what lies below and above. We dive and fly in dreams; we use science, religion, and art to explore and reason for that inexplicable longing.

I don’t think it needs to be explained. We should take note of the rolling tides. Go with the pull and flow.

Mabon has always been my season. When the heat simmers, my shades become less of a need to mute the blinding loudness of the light and all the noise that seems to come with that. When the world begins to slow down, and some embrace a slumbering stasis when the chill hits. This time of year is perfect for taking pause and breathing in the refreshing change on the verge, as reflected in the falling leaves, the foggy mornings and shorter days on the horizon.

In the village of Badb, I am standing on peatlands, watching the waves of the North Sea crash against the rocks. I breathe in the chilling air. How time has eroded much of this old land. Light catches the rising black crests—the water is shimmering with moon diamonds. The ambient fragrance of the hardy heathers washes over me and the cliffs—ghosts rushing through my hair as it blows around my face. I’m pulled from the cliff edge, and I walk back through the woody peatlands, a soft bounce underfoot as if I’m on a cloud. My neck stretches towards the sky ahead; clouds shift like smokey apparitions over the radiant orb dressed in her mesmerising light of ochre, tangerine, apricot and marigold.

Distance grows between the waves, and I hear them… clicks, rattles and sharp caws.

The roost is restless. There’s a light in a lonely window pulling me through the darkness of this isolated place.

A wispy voice kisses my lobe like a breeze.

They call.

She calls.

I walk to where the serpent meets the crow.