A poem for the ancient feasts of Lughnasadh, (Lunasa) and Lammas that mark the liminal time of Summer yielding to Autumn’s first fiery touch….
Lughnasadh night
The hay has all been saved.
The wheat and grain are gathered in,
stacked in stooks across
the night silvered fields,
still ringing with the sound of song,
the drum of dance,
and graced and grateful voices
raised in harvest thanks.
The holy wells are dressed in flower form,
while vesper bells are rung
and old pilgrim feet take to the hills
to bless the land anew
awaiting dawn in stillness.
While down amongst the berry bushes,
the songs of youth are sung
and purple sweetness tasted on the lips
in valleys where now
the air has the feel of thunder,
the keen edge and promise of rain
that has not come yet, but wants to.
So the Moon, the Lady’s lamp, appears between the curtains of the clouds,
and the ancestors and keepers of the land draw close, feeling the first
autumnal thinning of the veils.
Now the Lammas loaves lie
cooling on the sill,
awaiting benediction’s gentle fall
as blessed and broken they will become
the covenant promise of a faithèd fullness,
to ward against the bite and blight
of winter’s empty song,
as He, who is the true Sun
by which we see all light,
is Himself our first fruits promise,
of that last and longed for harvest
when we shall at evening’s coming
put down our tools,
and enter into barns ourselves
to share the bread of Angels,
blessed in our very brokenness,
our emptiness at last made full,
our ever dancing steps
now leaving only
prints of light.
