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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
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