Of death

So I say this. Speak of them. Speak of those that died. Speak of all those who ever died - in all the world's history, in its wars, and long-lost days. Speak of those who met their deaths in Glencoe, in snow - not of their deaths, but of their lives before them. Not of how they died, but of how they bent to pat a dog's head, or what ballads they could sing, or what their skin was like by their eyes when they smiled, or which weather was their weather - for it keeps them living. It stops them being dead.
To do this - to speak or write of them - puts breath back in their mouths. It lifts them up from their earthy beds. It shakes off their worms and brings them forth, and they stand by the side of the one who speaks of them; they walk out of the pages of those who write them down. From the realm, they smile upon us. And their light is as bright as it always was. All the dead people - only, they are not dead.


If you're looking for a wonderful book to read, read 'Witch Light' by Susan Fletcher... also published under the name 'Corrag'.

I'll be back soon to write some words of my own but I really liked this passage and wanted to share.

Goodnight, xxx