antiphon by andrew sherwell

Autumn in Albion is always magical. Gold, red, and bronze, the quivering leaves glow in the perpetually slanting light, light that reveals yet also creates the deepest of shadows. As the season unfolds, the leaves fall, the mists rise, and the clouds lower. And the veils get thinner.
The dead are close now and so are others, others more wonderous and terrible.
As the abundance and warmth of endless summer days turns to the challenge of dark, cold, never-ending winter, it’s time to ask for help. Help that comes at a price. For those who believe in the one true sacrifice, the final sacrifice of For Now and Forever, the price has already been paid and the Saints are there to help during Hallowmas. Others, who face older concerns, may need to make a new sacrifice, blood in the bonfires of Samhain.
In these most magical of days, dreamers wandering the Western shores may catch a glimpse through lifting sea frets of the tall ships leaving the harbour, headed for Avalon. Or lost in the early morning, fog-muffled, colour-bleached streets of London, the poet may be granted a fleeting vision of the city transformed: Jerusalem, silvered and trembling, eternal.
Through these thin and enchanted days, angels and demons flit, half-glimpsed by those with the heart to see, heard in snatches by those unlucky enough to hear. Their song is but an antiphon. Pray that you hear not the canticles that follow, for if you do, you have passed through the veil, lost forever to ecstasy and terror.

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"As the shadows closed in, the stars came out"
Derek Jarman