Gathering

These days the preparations started months in advance, even before the old year turned. Bright colours and brighter tunes to welcome the coming king and hold back the darkness. It made the return easier when the walls were weakest slipping in clad in motley all glitter and sparkle tumbling and prancing. Weaving amongst their thoughts as they readied for the kings coming, half glimpsed reflected in bright baubles hung on trees, or through the bottom of a celebratory tipple. A welcome guest to some, young upon the stage and upon the tongues of story tellers performing for their amusement, age and purpose forgotten amongst the revelry half lost amongst newer tales. Weeks pass and the kings return grows nigh, all is bustle in preparation a time for family and gatherings.

The king has come! Night turns for a while into day, darkness receding. Now is time for a gathering:

Next day the wren boys were out hunting.

Bright costume tattered he fled his pursuers three miles or more, till stuck deep in the furze he joined the host.

Office over the priest removes his robe, and in the temples darkness watches the light fade, forgotten now the king has come.

Tired, festooned in streamers and a paper crown she slips away, from her sleeping babes, with one last gin.

Returning home in fine attire the prodigal strays once more and is missed by no one.

Surrounded by the detritus of years past and chances missed, the crone saw the future stretched barren before her and moved on.

Six nights and the new year turns,

Lovers straddling each other and the year, find in seclusion love is not enough and are lost in each others arms.

Still free from care the child wanders too far, too long and is lost from sight.

Bottle half empty on the floor, and tired of excuses and pretence he stayed late at the office his heart grown cold.

Heading for the party, up to speed and full of love their car tweaked sharply round the bend to embrace the ancient oak.

The old tramp coat as dark and tattered as the mummers, leaves unnoticed

Twelfth night Herle king leaves the stage, slips out into darkness to the old hunt, horses steaming hounds baying; clan gathered, mother, lovers, crone and all. To hunt what quarry the roads would bring them, travellers forgetful of the time, unwary in the kings return. Winters ebb taking who it can whilst darkness still clung to the world.