DANCE OF THE BARLEY
Under moon's white glow the barley's bleached,
The summer's full, its ripeness reached,
The wind a whispering careless tickle,
That heralds the sweep of a golden sickle.
While in deep chambers underground
In tree-topped stone-lined earthen mound,
Empty eyes strain for moon, for sun,
For wildwoods where the fleet deer run.
Twang of bowstring, blow of hammer,
The winds arise in deafening clamour-
The air is filled with ancient voices,
As the shimmering barley waves, rejoices.
YOU ARE READING
DANCE OF THE BARLEY
PoetryI live amongst the burial mounds of people who lived in the area 4000 years ago. Sometimes the moon rises over the hill like a golden sickle and the wind seems full of a thousand lost voices...
