May Day


Upon the hill a fire burns,

And people feast

The summer in.


Upon the hill the old year turns,

The winter beast

Flees from the din.


Upon the hill is where we learn

The olden ways, and not the least,

The path that’s followed by our kin.


Upon the hill is where I yearn,

To watch the sun rise in the east,

And feel its magic on my skin.


So burn, bright fire, magic blood,

Spill and sow for summer’s good,

And raise the grain, the bloom, the bud.

The flames leap bright and high

A quatern for Bealtaine


The flames leap bright and high,

Into the deepening night,

Keeping the old ones nigh,

Bringing them into the light.


The new ones mutter low,

The flames leap bright and high,

Black hearts make shadows grow,

Their chants, the shadows fly.


Wise ravens’ croaks defy,

Their paltry magic chasing,

The flames leap bright and high,

Down sacred hillside racing.


The black ones falter, failing,

We watch their magic die,

The old ones’ fire swords flailing,

The flames leap bright and high.

Poem for Bealtaine


The first rose blooms beneath the rain,


Spangling the green with ephemeral diamonds.

First rose blooms,

Flame red calling

The fires that herald summer.

Promise of abundance,

Flame, flower, and fertile earth,

She opens her arms to embrace the world,

Springing from earth’s cradle,

Bringing to birth,

The beauty of life.