CANDLES ON THE COBB
I am sitting in the middle of the park, under the stars. Soft, pure green grass lies beneath my skin. A ray of moonlight falls across my hand. I sigh, and sit up, smiling as a swiftly gliding snowy owl swoops by overhead. I get to my feet, and begin walking through the park towards the sea.
I walk, never resting, always moving. Finally, I pause, and come to a standstill. Calmly, I reach into my coat and pull out a white candle. Holding it in the centre of my palm, I lift it up to my face, eyes fixed upon the pillar of wax. Whispering a word, I light the candle by magic. Still holding the light, I continue on.
I am joined by others, holding their own lights. People of all races and descriptions, each bearing a dancing yellow flame. As one, these people and I begin to sing. It is a low, mysterious, hauntingly beautiful melody, composed to frighten the unaware and to entrance the mind. We come to the ancient and mysterious Cobb.
We wait, silent now, but for the rustle of wind.
Then, as if by some unseen signal, one at a time each of us takes our candle in its holder, and carry it to its appointed place.. It is hollowed out in the middle, creating a bowl. When my turn arrives, I take my candle, and touch the flame to the centre of the bowl. And as the flame touches, it burns into a swirl of flame, added to all the other candle flames.
When everyone of us has touched the flame of our candles and the Cobb is blazing with five thousand glorious lights, we begin to chant. It is the song of the light, the candlesong. And then silence. Perfect silence.
I am sitting in the middle of the park, under the stars. Soft, pure green grass lies beneath my skin. A ray of moonlight falls across my hand. I sigh, and sit up, smiling as a swiftly gliding snowy owl swoops by overhead. I get to my feet, and begin walking through the park towards the sea.
I walk, never resting, always moving. Finally, I pause, and come to a standstill. Calmly, I reach into my coat and pull out a white candle. Holding it in the centre of my palm, I lift it up to my face, eyes fixed upon the pillar of wax. Whispering a word, I light the candle by magic. Still holding the light, I continue on.
I am joined by others, holding their own lights. People of all races and descriptions, each bearing a dancing yellow flame. As one, these people and I begin to sing. It is a low, mysterious, hauntingly beautiful melody, composed to frighten the unaware and to entrance the mind. We come to the ancient and mysterious Cobb.
We wait, silent now, but for the rustle of wind.
Then, as if by some unseen signal, one at a time each of us takes our candle in its holder, and carry it to its appointed place.. It is hollowed out in the middle, creating a bowl. When my turn arrives, I take my candle, and touch the flame to the centre of the bowl. And as the flame touches, it burns into a swirl of flame, added to all the other candle flames.
When everyone of us has touched the flame of our candles and the Cobb is blazing with five thousand glorious lights, we begin to chant. It is the song of the light, the candlesong. And then silence. Perfect silence.
