Lughnasa 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)Lughnasa. English Lammas. The sun slowly fades from its solstice peak. Its journey is like a river; the water constant in its swirling, only the landscape changing as it slides by and day follows day.
The first day of harvest dawns with soft, shadowless, silver light creeping through the windows. By the river, a low furnace burns among the trees whose leaves dance a pantomime against the silver-orange light that forges another smoky dawn.
The spirits of the neighborhood gather to accept the offering of Lammas bread I lay before them, a small sacrifice to the guardians of this suburban demesne. With fluttering wings and fanned tails, young blues dance a ritual challenge against the reds, duns and grays for control of the unending seed. A red-shouldered juvenile frolics in the morning sun, chasing fallen pine needles before clutching one as a prize as it ascends to an oaken perch.
As I turn toward the water's edge, the summer sun embraces me like a lover long away, the humidity crushing all the breath from my chest. Nestled among the sage in this sere and shattered season, a lone purple blossom recalls an ancient rain song with an echo of storms to come.
The river is a still, black mirror marred only by a patchwork stain of lily pads, reflecting the cypress knees that tremble from supporting a dark green canopy of sky. Islands of tall, straight pines scattered across a green sea of pasture form the only topography along this stretch of watery highway.
Lightning skitters and shies along the horizon as cloud bottoms blur, merging sky with sea. Closer now, the lightning dances among the clouds, flashing their petticoats as distant elders grumble their disapproval at the provocative display. As the rain sheets down, the voice of the river rises from a hoarse whisper to a thunderous roar proclaiming its rebirth.
The edges of the world become as sharp as shattered crystal in the sterling twilight that follows the landscape cleansing rain. As night descends, the moon plays hide and seek among the clouds, its light occasionally spilling onto the water like heavy cream overflowing a large pewter pitcher.
By the equinox, thousands of migratory birds will form intricate line drawings of shallow waves cresting upon the river's wide and sandy shores. On a bluff overlooking the water, a mound of stones creates a low, dark chamber with a narrow passage leading in from outside, a cold womb where the dead are reborn from within. Towering trees guard these ancient ruins where gods once wept. Only blind men dwell there now, unscathed by its fallen beauty.
Each year wends along its own journey. Some happily burble while others crash and tumble over cataracts. A few become silent mirrors upon which we can reflect, with no two images looking exactly the same. Enjoy the journey, wherever it may take you. The river might not pass this way again.
© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III
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ReplyDeleteNotes and asides:
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Again, a compilation of unused daily lines. The idea for the journey came from our trip to Rockledge, where I jotted down an image of the St. Johns river that I liked. As I glanced through last year's message for Lughnasa, I was struck that no two messages, like not two years, turn out exactly the same. The themes are similar, as are the seasons they represent. I find comfort in pausing to notice the changes at the cardinal points and mid-seasons throughout the year.
To the Celts and English, today is the first day of fall. Somewhere we got an eighth of a year off in our accounting of the seasons. Perhaps they measure light where we focus on heat. Or maybe it has to do with tea.
Lughnasa is another Celtic holiday co-opted by the early Christians. In England, it is called Lammas, the first harvest of wheat when grain was brought to the lord's mill and bread was baked across the countryside. The Anonymous Four perform an English Lammas Mass on one of their CD's.
My intent is not to just pillage and weave daily lines to create these messages. But the weeks since Midsummer have been long, full and distracting. The dog days of summer dragging me down. Now I know why I'm a cat person.
We'll see where we end up at the equinox. Perhaps somewhere more original.