The Old Bearded Man stands crooked in the fields. Born at the time of the Winter Solstice he has felt love, and has been loved. Now his beloved stands before him, the razor-edge of her sickle catching the light of the Summer Sun. They stand like this for some time - remembering their Journey together - but this happens every year, and they both know what lay ahead. Maybe a life well-lived can be easier to surrender? I don't know, but the heads of John Barleycorn bow and are tossed in the Su