In the village where I live, in Sussex, we made our bonfire in the Vicarage paddock and every year, as soon as it was lit, the Vicar's cow would begin to dance. She danced while the flames rose up to the sky, she danced till the ashes were black and cold. And the next morning-it was always the same-the Vicar would have no milk for his breakfast. It is strange to think of a simple cow rejoicing at the saving of Parliament so many years ago.

'Bird and beast and stone and star - we are all one, all one -' murmured the Hamadryad, softly folding his hood about him as he himself swayed between the chil…

Since 1939, however, there have been no bonfires on the village greens. No fireworks gleam in the blackened parks and the streets are dark and silent. But this…

It may be that to eat and be eaten are the same thing in the end. My wisdom tells me that this is probably so. We are all made of the same stuff, remember, we …

Bonfires dot the rolling hillsides Figures dance around and around To drums that pulse out echoes of darkness And moving to the pagan sound.

As you turned to go I heard you call my name, You were like a bird in a cage spreading its wings to fly 'The old ways are lost,' you sang as you flew And I won…

A hair of the dog that bit us.