Three Lughnasadh Poems


With last years harvest near run out,
and this years harvest not yet in,
we stand,
betwixt and between.
The field is full,
yet the cauldron is empty.

And on the final day,
of summer's wait,
stomachs empty,
but hearts full,
we climb the highest mountain
to look out at the fields.

The earth is full and beautiful,
her newborn resting on her belly
still connected for one final day
before the scythe severs the cord
to this year's bounty.

Golden wheat,
beneath a golden sun,
the child in the field
mirrors the radiance
of the father's crown.


Bright blessings fall,
like rain on dark fertile earth,
like stars on an August night,
like apples, ripe and ready, from the orchard.

Good luck,
good fortune,
good karma,
bright and particular,
gather it in
as it comes to you.

Seed to wheat,
wheat to mill,
mill to bread,
bread to hearth,
hearth to belly,
belly to heart,
heart to god.

I wish for us all,
that we are in the right place,
at the right time,
on the right path,
and that our bread lands ever butter side up.


Keep the good harvest,
but take all the hurts
of the year past
and toss them out.
In their own little corner,
in their own little spot,
let them quietly rot,
until they are part of the earth once more.

Instead of pressing them in to a bitter winter whine,
leave them to be pecked at by passing birds,
for their pleasure.

The earth will take it all in,
transforming the fallen
back in to fertile ground.

© 2001 Claudia Chapman All Rights Reserved

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