OF DRUIDS AND BARDS...and those 'first fruits'

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