‘Tis Beltane, where the boastful sun does go
To battle with the shady twinkling frost.
So gather you to kneel and quiver so,
Lest grasses thin and herd grows gaunt and lost.

Show they all, in shortened sleeves and looks,
To meadows come, beholden to the sun.
Their essence bulges out as tiny brooks,
And onward to the salted cradle run.

See a lass, with yellow flowered hair –
She will draw like waxing sun the men,
To light their fires and place their maypole there.
With rising heat, ah… raise that trunk again,

And we can twist and twirl our ribbon dance.
A few sips of a sweetened mushroom brew,
And here Queen Passion reigns our fiery prance…
Protected by a veil of honeyed dew.

And he who gentle cups a warming hand,
To give heat to a long-preparing tree…
Shall see small petals, on his thumb unfanned…
The fragrant blossom opens to the bee.

Come we all to revel, fear, and lust:
‘Tis Beltane, and we hope the fates be just.


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