LAMMAS

Author Andrea Gibbons 2006


She, who is the Grain Mother,
She who is the seed,
She, who is the womb, the soil,
The provider of life indeed.
She is the regenerative power,
With the elements, she works with intent,
The miracles within this cosmic plain,
Throughout the wheel of ascent.
And now the Sun-God has reached his height,
In celebration of our Goddess,
A reminder, of that which we have to reap,
A time, again, for re-dress.
We have abundance: an explosion,
Of everything we and the earth did sow,
And nurtured from all four corners,
Which helped it all to grow.
An extravaganza of colour bursts forth,
Of flowers, grass and corn,
First fruits and berries appear once more,
Nature's law; forever sworn.
We hold the tribal gatherings and markets,
Hand-fasting and ritual games,
The appointment of new chiefs and leaders,
And choosing of babies names.
There is also horse-racing and horse fairs,
To honour Goddess Rhiannon,
Wakes to mourn Sun's waning power,
The jollities go on and on.
We combine merry-making with last year's yields,
Whiskey, cider, wine, fruit-cups and beer,
And ritually drink the transformative power,
Given by our fire and water seer.
And the bread is made from new-grain,
'Tis broken with thanks and tradition,
Is shared to each and everyone,
We have worked for this fruition.
But as we near the end of this fraction,
Ashes near spent on Silbury Hill,
Face upwards to darkening, dreamy skies,
And underlying still ……………………
Processions completed by sacred well,
Waterway and fountain,
We've climbed Craogh Patrick by a full Celtic moon,
Luasa's sacred mountain.
And Lugh turns us within the spiral of death,
And open door-way to the inner realm,
We begin to give way to darkness and sleep,
The Goddess; gently at the helm.
Now, we wait for the final harvest,
Closing quickly on the horizon of light,
A time for reflective gaze and inner thought,
To take into the night ……………..
She, who is the present,
She, who is the past,
She, who is the future,
Another circle will be cast.



LAMMAS EVENING

Author Heather Shackleton August 2000

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.