I am the old Pagan nearing the Winter Solstice.

  I am the old Pagan nearing the Winter Solstice. I muse and reflect upon the cycles to come as I rebound from the despair of last week.i think of social wars to come and of a new electoral cycle. There will be a Labour leadership election and three sets of elections this year. There is much to do and many meetings to attend as the year 2020 nears I reflect upon my age and think of a Spring that I will never see. Yet I firmly see myself involved in the continuing struggle as my generation nears its late Autumn. When I lost a faith and found a faith I saw what must be done and that there are no excuses. I am part of the cycle of birth, life and death and the words and activity I carry with me are the meaning and purpose of my existence.

 I am not Sissyphus but am instead Fabius waging resistance to prejudice and ignorance, xenophobia and am preserving, enhancing and adding to the cause of Siocialism. In each generation no defeat is final and no victory total As the Sun nears nadir we know that Spring is near and that the days will lengthen. As a President with a thin skin and a large ego is impeached and the respective rustbelts of this country and of the USA bare their collective throats to the wolves of late capitalism: we shiver as full grown Ur Fascism in its Post Modern full bloom grows out of the dead ground. I am the old Pagan on the X6 bus heading southwards to Swansea as the light grows. I think of those days to come and I am intrigued, anxious and concerned. I wonder as I glance around Europe i wonder if a vote for Macron in 2017 is a vote for LePen in a future election If Brexit will be a shibboleth for the far right as the EDL and Britain First begin entryism into the Tory Party. As the Crone whispers to me on the dark side of the Moon, whilst her words talk of a dark renewal and strange monsters . Yet she also reminds me that I am a Hegelian and reminds me of the black swans landing, of false consciousness and of the return of the repressed.. She reminds me of unexpected events, and of Max Weber's unforseen consequences. I wonder about outliers and of indeterminacy I am smiling by the time the bus reaches Pontardawe...No Pasaran you Tory bastards..we approach a low dishonest decade ...in the desert of our hearts new healing begins.. .the resistance starts...