Sitting in the early September fields
green snap of beans as they hit the bucket
wind racing through my wild hair
sunshine so gentle I toss off my hat
as the accordion man plays
another tune for the crickets
another tune for the flies
and another one for the clouds that roll by
Harvest is here yet the pig weed needs picking
cobs of old corn
lay with their rotten teeth clicking
and somehow time just goes on ticking
The Oak King is soon to take his repose
and heaven knows the Crone is lurking
silently working
on her veil
of frosted leaves
and piles of sheaves
Her moan all too close now
before summer’s warmth has even entered our bones
I long to dance on in these bright days so merry
before snow flies
and by the old fireside we’ll tarry
I think of the goslings now grown
that I’ve watched earn their wings
and I think up some songs
for their journey to sing
And as they depart
so shall I to the mountain
amidst colours so glorious
my walk seeming victorious
to the resting place
of Grandmother and Grandfather
a poem to recite
and some leaves for to gather
That having been done
I will look to the sun
and not question the reason,
the season
or matter
for all comes to an end
upon this we depend
and then new life
springs up from the void.
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