Remembering Bealtaine

The grass grows lush in this rain
and with the dimming of the light
the shadows move slow
the wind lows among the dripping leaves
and for the moment of a sunset
on this day of all days
I can feel the scented breath
of cattle coming home.


Ghost cattle

I’m still following some prompts, but not posting them on the different sites. I’m finding I just don’t have the time to read and reciprocate to comments. This poem, a sonnet of sorts, was written for the earthweal prompt, a reminder that we’re coming up to Bealtaine.

Ghost cattle

In this meadow where only ghost cattle low,
bright buttercups bow their golden heads,
blue flax flowers mirror the pale May sky.
In this meadow where only ghost cattle low,
lush grass growing now is cropped by the deer,
a jungle where pheasants and foxes peer
through stalks and stems and flowered threads.
There were cattle here once but now the hare,
the fox, the badger, the rabbit and deer
tread wary paths the night time; no snare
is set in the grass, no traps to fear,
beneath the hedge where the spindle trees grow,
and the fire that’s lit on this clear spring night
is for ghost cattle shades, the past’s swift-winged flight.

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.