“Wither, wither, black flowering night. May your dark juices bleed, burn up like a pool on the summer plain, shrivel like a stain upon sand, dwindle to a basalt pebble, tiny as a slow-worms eye is. Vanish, to nothing.”

Personal rituals observing the season continue even if the public cannot. This is one of my favourite ways to use this platform, by honouring the creators who came before me and rebroadcasting their work. This the fourth? year that I get to play this radio play by Alison Mcleay, which was originally broadcast on BBC Scotland Saturday December 21st, 1985 at 10:30pm. I was two years old when this originally aired, and though my local CBC channel would sometimes play the BBC Wold News throughout the night, I don’t know if this would’ve been aired.