Haibun for the summer past

Haibun for dverse.

Lughnasa marked the start of the harvest. It was a time of festivities, games, feasting, before the hard work, drumming up Lugh to drive away blight from the ripe crops. It was hilltop bonfires, arms reaching up to the sky, embracing the world. It was not a time of giving thanks but of the rolling up of sleeves.
Sun-faced he shone
when we remembered—forgot
he shines still.
The cycles of birth, growth and death repeat with the turning of the earth, needing no intervention, supernatural or human. There is no one to thank, no one to blame. We are privileged (or not), lucky (or not), generous (or not) and when it rains, we get wet.
Bleak the black stalks
hard the smooth buds unbroken
safe within—life.

Blackbird harvest


On the vine the grapes are almost ripe.
Plump purple bunches
Pendulous pyramids inverted by gravity,
Hanging in the cool shade.
Here and there a touch of green, hard and dense,
Among the ripe bursting grains.
Almost, almost.
Almost does for the blackbirds,
Fluttering through the sun-crackling leaves
In their hysterical haste.
Crashing and clucking, they gobble,
Picking the ripest, sweetest,
Ransacking the harvest.
Cat watches,
Impotent in the face of such fury.
No matter.
I would rather blackbirds than grapes anyway.