I asked a dear friend to narrate ‘Exodus of the Crone’ and her words have become the heart of this continuing series…

Four babas beaks painted salmon by the dawn. Where they go is none of your concern. To know would be to know already, in your dense and wordless marrow, of that incandescent place just beyond form, beyond sense. The place that visits you in those in-between hours when, half-lit, you sharpen and unravel, bewitched by the tingling almost-memory of strange, familiar things. Of hoods and hiddenness and wings. Mulch underfoot. Warm breath whispering out moths and gossip and prayers. Kindling sticks like long fingers, blazing, beckoning you home.

- Ciara McCollam