Solstice Sacrifice

The sacrificial victim lies upon the metal sheet as many, far too many to count, have lain before her, year upon year. She is trussed and immobile, defenceless against the ritual cutting of the gleaming blade, the keen edge against the taut skin. The hard barren solstice is upon us once more. For weeks the Sun has been dying. It's great, raging fire's are damped, no longer warming the rich earth which lies now in hard clods and soft mud, it's green thrusting life force diminished and spent. The hedgerows that teemed with busy, noisy life such a short time ago are silent now but for the occasional thrum of an empty beak against the dry bark of naked trees. So now, as the world teeters on the edge of death, the old dance must be begun again as it has been each year stretching back over the millennia to the dawning of mankind. A victim must be selected, prepared, bound....and the knife must do its work. If light and life are to return to the world then blood and life must be spilled. Tradition and ritual must be honoured. The paper hats of priestdom must be donned, the riddles and jests of a far off past must be mumbled again. Ho,ho, ho.