The Sacrifice

At grim midsummer earth opens a carious mouth

The stonecircles are cold for sacrifice


Then we gather in one guttural tongue

Kneel silent as the sun rises over the motherland


Shadow sticks its dried blood to the long barrows

Splashes the shattered stones


After the rain

We will plant the gourd shaved and washed in the warm peat



Tug the bled shadow to the fen

and stand as one

Watching the rough husk

        slide under the brown water


Priests calling the harvest.

Robert James Berry