The Night Before the Longest Day

The night before the longest day a man Went walking on the chalk path on the hill Collecting stars. He had a little pan To sift them as they fall, for fall they will Some crumble quickly into silver dust But others do remain, and of them rings Are made, and spells to satiate the lust Of wild priestesses and of summer kings He sifted them, and as he sifted sang A song of summer roses soft as smoke And mists that in the early morning hang Above the barrows and around the oak The oak. He felt the roots before he saw The leaves, and felt the leaves around his head Before he saw that he was stood before The wild priestess. 'You summoned me' she said Her skin was light and luminous, her eyes Were blue as sky with flecks of rose and gold Her dress was made of silk and butterflies With meadow flowers slid in every fold And she was old and wise as was the wren That sat upon her shoulder, and as young As any maiden had appeared to men Who had their songs of love and longing sung He gazed in awe. So bright was she that he Could barely see his hand before his face What was that feeling? Electricity? That caused his blood to round his body race And that, that buzz, that buzzing like a bee But louder, buzzing outside and within And beating, like a drum within the tree Within his soul an old and holy din She took his hand. The last thing that he saw Was her in all her glory as her dress Of butterflies flew slowly to the floor His fingers on her body, her caress She laid him down. The last thing that he heard Was sizzling, and the fizzle of a flame And high above the whistle of a bird A song about a King who had no name 'It was the lightning done for him' the folk Did whisper, 'and so say there was a swarm Of bees around the oak before the smoke And some do say they saw a figure form' 'A woman?' 'So they say. And with a wren' The old man nodded wisely. 'That was She The wild priestess, and He the king again And all is well as ever. Blessed be' © Gail Foster 17th June 2022