A poem for Lughnasadh and Lammas Night

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.

Calming the Storms: a new book

Moon Bathing

 Moon Bathing

Moon Bathing 

Last night,

on the eve of the summer solstice,

my sister, the Lady Moon,

came dancing down the sky

to bathe her pale white 

reflection in the round pool

upon the hill, in the dark woods,

before the old monastery,

while none but I watched.

Woken from sleep 

in the deep night,

I came to the window weary

and wondering why

I had been summoned

from the sacred steps 

leading to the gates of horn?

But now I gazed 

breathless, and

beheld the beauty of 

a land illumined, changed,

silvered by the waxing 

Moon looking lovingly

upon the hills, the trees, 

the waters. 

She, lending them her light,

itself a loan, though made her own,

mirrored and magical by mystic 

alchemy, now embraced the land 

and silvered and softened her in filigree

appearing like fishscale glinting 

up from some dark water’s wave.

I watched a while then, 

as across the silent land of night 

her white light walked, blessing 

all it touched with beauty unknown

to all the sleepers resting in their beds.

Until at last she found the old pool 

and seemed to rest there a while.

Playing in its fountained waters 

as falling drops became white diamonds,

she filled the pool with liquid light

charging the waters once again with love,

as by the light of grace 

a soul arises from 

the dark of spirit’s night

and finds again the 

gift of life appearing 

at the very darkest moment,

when all seems lost,

for mercy comes always, gentle 

as moonlight upon the waters, 

disturbing nothing, yet 

rendering all anew in beauty 

ready for Sun’s appearing.

Last night,

on the eve of the summer solstice

my sister, the Lady Moon,

came dancing down the sky

to bathe her pale white 

reflection in the round pool

upon the hill, in the dark woods,

before the old monastery,

while none but I watched

and I am ever grateful for 

the wonder of being woken,

for the blessing of it all.

A Storm of Starlings

 Starling Shower

Rain came with the flower moon, 

presaged by a deluge of starlings

into the cloister garden,

falling like chattery stars 

they festooned the old cherry trees

only lately leafed and now blossoming birds.

Where and how they came 

we do not know,

but welcomed their 

electric shock of arrival 

and the throaty whistle of their calls 

as a surge of wild energy exulting 

on the edge of Summer storms,

like schoolchildren at term’s end.

Raucous and rowdy, even the robins

retreated before their squabbling,

sparking from iridescent wings 

shook over shoulders that jerk

along in time with their staccato steps.

They have birthed wonder anew 

these sudden garrulous guests,

reminding us of the joy 

that comes from summer laughter, 

from cocking an ironic glinting eye 

at life from time to time,

and living with a gusto

that erupts in flight at grace’s 

sudden swift appearing, 

unknown and even unasked for from above.

Oh we thank these rough and tumble gangsters of the sky for however long

they make our garden home,

before the ancient call sounds along

their hollow bones and makes them

sun seekers once again 

and storm warnings,

leaving us their life lessons 

on a murmuring cloud,

in the glitter-glint of a starling’s eye.

Somewhere a Light

 Somewhere a Light

There is 

always light,

somewhere.

Darkness 

is always 

encompassed 

by light.

After all,

you wouldn’t 

even know 

what darkness 

was,

if light 

did not 

circumscribe 

its ragged 

edge.

Somewhere 

now,

even in 

the darkest 

night,

fire burns,

light is 

kindled,

candles 

are lit,

and minds 

and hearts

are illumined

by grace,

making lives 

glitter,

like gilded letters 

animating 

the text 

of everyday 

life

in our 

always

flickered passing

towards 

the ever after

page 

of peace.

Stair Flights

 Stair Flights

Lately, I have been thinking

of the sheer ridiculous 

goodness of stairs.

Does that seem strange?

But, consider a moment 

the generous way in which 

they hold our weight

and allow a slow motion flight

up or down.

How, over centuries, 

we have come to know

the perfect height

and depth each step should be

for no fall or slip to take place,

but by our own distracted error.

How they connect places and planes

of different existence and different times.

How they allow passage.

How they are often our best image 

of birth, and death, and daily 

beckon restwards.

How they were places of play

and places of peace,

making themselves into seats 

and even slides,

when wanted.

I think of tiny spiral ones, tightly wound

in turrets and towers,

and the grand staircases of ancient houses,

to say nothing of the ones haunted

by memories, and perhaps by

more than memory,

and I am amazed again

at the casual way we climb,

so often not noticing 

the holding of our body

the leaning of each step towards us

the blessing of bannisters

the etiquette of ascension,

the sacramentality of stairs.

Don’t even get me started

on doors.

Red Apples

 Red apples

I want to write a poem today

That falls upon the mind

Like the autumn sunshine

Falling on this page and 

Giving a sudden sharpness 

To the ink,

To the fibre of the paper, 

Such that a smooth page 

Is now,

A landscape of detail.

Such that a single letter 

Is now mountainous 

In its meaning.

I want to write a poem today 

That silvers the shadowed 

Corners of the mind

Like the harvest moon shining 

In the window at night, 

Large and lovely in the sky,

Making your room 

An unfamiliar forest that 

Appears only in

Your midnight waking.

I want to write a poem today

As warm as the red 

Of apples in the old

White bowl upon 

The kitchen counter.

Fiery jewels, juice filled and 

Garnered from garden

Seeming to hold 

Summer’s essence 

In sphere form.

I want to write a poem today

Flaming like an autumn bonfire,

That licks lazily at 

the secret senses of the soul

And illumines the 

Hearth of the heart 

With flickers and sparks 

Of faithlight kindled.

But how can I write 

When the world itself 

Seems to be aflame?

When the chaos of war erupts 

Again, and again, and again.

When violence screams

So loud in language 

Of hatred and pain.

When the sufferers are 

Silenced and the listeners 

So deadened and deafened 

In their overwhelm 

They weep now only dust.

When the terror tells its lies

In every tongue and we 

Fall back again and again 

Into the dance of death 

That separates and sunders and sins by 

Seeing the child, the woman, the man

As other than brother or sister of

My own blessed being and cries out

Against the simple song of 

Now, of love, of peace, that

Our souls were always meant to sing.

So how to sit with 

Meaning in the midst of madness?

I do not know.

Except to name the beauty that

Still blesses and sing the bounty of the 

Moment that is always graced. 

And try to cultivate the peace

Of Soul that slowly kindles

Kindness in all the hearts around.

Ever beginning anew, ever offering

A new beginning to all

Who see ending only through

Their weeping eyes.

And all the while to cry out

For every voice now silenced. 

To give the dead their due 

And offer prayer for all, 

With all, that soon

A ceasefire of sacred stillness 

May arise around the world.

That after storm, and fire, 

And earthquake, there may be 

A moment for us all to breathe 

At last and most of all for those

Whose hearts hate has consumed 

And who consume the souls 

Of others in their hate,

That they may stop

And drop their guns and guard;

Hearing at last the sacred sound

Of divine breathing, our common

Song of inter-being, then,

Seeing in each other’s eye their 

Own reflection returned and know 

In sacred sight of soul

Their own brother, their own sister 

Revealed at last, again

In the shocking clarity

Of repentant tears.

So perhaps, so perhaps,

I will write a poem after all 

That sings of peace 

and of the sacred

Power of ordinary things

And the divine light 

In which they bathe,

And from which they come.

To remind us all

Of common being

Of blessing and of

A graced present now,

And now, and now,

Abiding and ever calling

Us to begin again

Beyond the path

Of pain we travel tired

And so cry out 

The kingdom to

A world weary of weeping;

That in every choice 

In every moment 

Another way is possible

Of joy and grace,

Of warm red apples 

In a white bowl

Waiting for our gaze to 

Liven them into love

Made visible once again,

Signposts of soul

Guiding our feet into the 

Way of peace.