LAMMAS EVENING
Blood sun,
Sky blush,
Breast-warm air, corn-scented, husk-dry,
Lulling harvester hum and slow
tree whisper,
Sleepy with late birdsong.
Moths flutter, parched,
Earth thirsts,
Bright Venus winks alone,
Maiden moon, apricot-soft
and brightening,
Thorn and bramble, green-berried
still, yet ripening.
And in the dusk-dark fields
John Barleycorn lies lifeless,
Lammas sacrificed,
While Modron, big with harvest,
labours on.
Heather Shackleton
August 2000
