Tidal Forces signal the members; the first full moon of spring, coaxing stars to punctuate the waning twilight of night sky.

Each of the 12 felt the lunar pull, urging them, coaxing them, calling them to gather in the glen.

Stripping off individual identities, to don Coven garb, shoeless to feel the damp moss of the glade against naked sole,

they arrive via 12 points of the compass, to circle a central blazing fire, where crackling sparks snap drifting skyward.

Nostrils flaring at the scent of night-blooming flowers tinged with the hint of burning hardwood, each of twelve greet thirteen.

The One, she who has always been there, Her flickering existence mercurial and ethereal as dancing flames.

Twenty four hands display and present an offering. Through fire, nine pair in turn contribute to the singing cauldron;

flavouring brew with their secrets; the final three, of Amaranth, Vanilla, and blood red wine-soaked moldy rye bread.

“Drink Deep of Life,” said The One … and they did …