planter

The humid air brings me down
to the soil over seeds,
six mounds across the garden,
shaped with infant hands,
the dirt still dark
from the waking
of its slumber.

With a spade
dug deep into the earth,
lines of ants
are led to lions' lairs,
marching a futile dirge,
feeding worlds larger than theirs.

A gust from above scatters them,
and some cling to me,
helpless.

As weeks fertilize
the fruits of labor,
the earth is worked,
and I will feel
the sweet nectar of harvest
as it falls from my lips
and travels down my neck.

And as the buzzard overhead watches,
the husk of the season
is laid bare,
its treasure full,
its spoil
reaped.

beach

The tide comes in,
waves against shore,
the rocks bearing down,
driving into shifting sand.

The seasons go,
waves against shore,
the rocks breakign down,
changing under driving pressure.

The air is thick,
the shore is clear,
between the crags,
nothing but shifting sand.

It took a lifetime
to change,
and we can't go back.

draoithe

The chill of early spring mist
caresses the great oak
and draws me to your branches,
reaching out,
out of reach.

Too dark to see
but for your love,
a waxing crescent,
it warms me
from my roots
to my scalp,
and I climb
to take my crown
of burning
lusty mistletoe.

My sickle,
golden,
a glimmer
in your eye.

The red stream
That spills
from the Galloways
fills my heart,
colors our lips,
and stains your white cloak
as my body
is emptied
of its poisons.

I drink from the bound horns,
we feast together,
and nothing will ever be barren again.