The Cry
of the Fruitful Corn-Gods
Low sun,
equatorial warmth is
Spreading its
Lughnasa-like wings today;
For it is August
(my friend) and the first fruits
Taste especially
sweet right now.
Behold the Celtic waters as they wash
Across three pagan pilgrims,
Steeped in the bluster of bilberry wine;
Watch as it drips little by little into the
mouths
Of the matchmakers and trade-mongers
Who’ve climbed the tepid tops of the clover-hills.
Summer is slow to swoon
Toward its last laugh
Just yet, while novices embark
On life’s ceremonial play-list;
Such ‘cycles of surrender’ quicken
To the memory of
Corn husk dolls who,
Once upon a time,
Stood contentedly ‘vanitized’
By the smolder of muck and mold
And evaporating bonfires.
Yet, Gaelic galleys forever reel
In pure reckless gratitude
For this half-way mark between
The solstices; Lugh,
In his perfect perpetuity,
Selects the finest china
For a warm and gentle harvest.
Beltane,
Imbolc, and Samhain,
Betray their own sad story:
Having never tendered the earliest corn…
This remains Lughnasa’s
Greatest glory.
But should even one
‘Druidic Dream’
Drown in the
Chastened rains
that pander to
The gentle green
plains
Of Emerald
Ireland:
And the good
Gaels of Kildare
Would simply melt
in disillusion,
And catch a quiet
waltz with King Puck
and his
Band of fruitful
corn gods.
Poem written by Lisa Porter-Grenn Copyright 2013
