A Harvest Song

A short poem written for a ritual at Lughnasadh. It's not great and doesn't quite say what I want it to about the historical relationship between women, farming, and warfare, but it sufficed. It's written in treochair metre.

Tears have flowed
Cauldron deep, bitter draught –
Drowning not saving, Life owed.

So much blood
Has seeped from her veins, scythe-slashed;
Poppies red in fields of mud.

Women weep
As wars wage; fields lay fallow,
Old ways fade, but do not sleep.

Like seeds stored,
Customs keep, awaiting spring.
Mothers the homesteads’ true hoard.

Grain sacks filled,
Backs bent to feed their kinfolk.
Fresh hope grows where blood was spilled.

Corn stalks glow
Golden yield, goddess-given,
Precious wealth for us to stow.


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