Beltane

Even the pigeons
on the spikes on top of the CCTV mast
are getting amorous

billows of cow parsley
burst from fissures
in the disused industrial estate,
all musk perfume and blousy skirts,
sassy, irresistable, intoxicating
to hapless nectar-hungry insects

dandelion suns
ripen to seed moons
which, when blown on,
erupt into orgasms of stars

in the fragments of the bluebell glade
which remain
in the central reservation of the dual carriageway,
even as the cars and trucks rush past,
as dusk, there is still a sacred hush;
holiness persists

even in the carpark
behind the shell garage
where the HGVs slumber like bison,
the impure air, heavy with petrol fumes
becomes a vessel of sex;
fragrant seeds carried on liquid seams of breeze,
intermingling with long tongues of dew soaked grass,
green tendrils tickling, earth and sky in union,
the Horned God full with lust for his sweet May Bride

the moment she feels the kiss of the sun
she opens for him
like a flower

and the jagged howls of vixens a-Maying,
rutting in the hawthorn grove by the unfinished development
under a blush milk moon
would suggest that, despite the fences and the concrete mixers,
even as the last of the ancient oaks are bulldozed to make space for more ugly houses,
the old gods here are utterly defiant,
have carnal smiles on upturned lips,
and will remain quite undeterred
in having their
wicked way.

Originally published in my collection of poetry, The Honey in the Bones

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A blessed Beltane to all 💚