Run with me where the moon
wavers in the gloaming
when the spears of the last seed sown
begin to bend their golden heads,
heavy and full in the pod.
Run with me in the dawn's mist,
then lay your head
where it belongs to be
so fine so weary
on the breasts that call it home.
Let the seed untie, let it blow in the wind
between the worlds.
Let your hands pass where
the skin is thin. Let the kite
give her harsh cry unheard.
In the space of a night the field is turned,
sown, and the crop fallen to the sickle moon.
The unchancy cailleach is full stoned.
The fires flare and smoke fills the deep woods
from the blaze of the heartwood that falls
but when the snow bites, and thought
and memory lead the wild hunt
and what's green falls to the white sword,
remember the promise of all things
born to die and watch me go.
This is posted with sadness for the last One Shoot Sunday as One Stop Poetry disbands. Thanks to all who have made the place what it was, and especially to Chris Galford for these always challenging Sunday photo prompts.
Brigid was the Celtic goddess associated with poetry, healing, and 'all things of high dimension.' She was Christianized as St Bridgit. I have taken liberties with her here and made her a summer goddess. The cailleach is the hag of winter, whom those familiar with my writing have met many times before. Thought and Memory were Odin's two ravens, and the wild hunt is an ancient folk myth prevalent across many cultures, of a spectral group of hunters. You can find more info on it here
Photo by Rosie Hardy