The wheel of the year

There is sleep in the air,
rustling leaves begin to fall,
the sagging eyelids of the season.
Each day a crispness awakens,
it heralds other subtle changes,
rest for the land, flowers, lakes.
The cleansing purgatory of snow
gathers its chemistry in the north.
The gentle breeze whispers: “Quiet now,”
the hush is Mother Nature’s cool touch
upon the frantic fevered cheek of summer.
Human hearts yearn for this time,
they cling to past ancient old ways,
a quickening yearning for the hearth,
harvested fields, ducks on the fly.
Goddesses lurk in the shadows,
Modron and Olwen lean into their work,
shouldering, turning the wheel of the year.
Sages know only spring and autumn hold love,
the dawn and twilight of seasons,
the spiritual recharging of all life.
Smoke rises from a distant chimney,
it has comfort in its languid message,
a temple incense carrying prayers.
In the living is the solitary knowledge
that with the ending of the year awaits
creation’s glorious beginnings,
the only promise winter gives up.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Heralds of autumn

There is sleep in the air,
rustling leaves begin to fall,
the sagging eyelids of the season.
Each day’s crispness awakens,
heralds other restless changes,
rest for the land, flowers, lakes.
The cleansing purgatory of snow
gathers its chemistry in the north.
A gentle breeze whispers: “Quiet now,”
the hush is Mother Natures cool touch
upon frantic summer’s fevered cheek.
Human hearts yearn for this time,
clinging to past ancient old ways,
harvested fields, ducks on the fly.
Goddesses lurk in the shadows,
Modron and Olwen lean into their work,
shouldering, turning the year’s wheel.
Only spring and autumn hold love,
the dawn and twilight of seasons,
the spiritual recharging of life.
Smoke rises from a distant chimney,
it has comfort in its message,
a temple incense carrying prayers.
In the living is the solitary knowledge
that with the ending of the year awaits
creation’s glorious beginnings.
There is rejoicing in this captive moment,
a bonding of the body to the spiritual,
a closeness to our blood, sangre de fantasma.
We stand upon the eons of ancestors,
starring balefully into the uncertainty,
into next year’s abyss with hope and belief.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour