Seasons : Lughnasadh



Harvest is a time to mourn,

We cut and break the dying corn,
And leave the fields bare.
In Spring we tell the corn we care
In Spring we walk the fields and share
Our love with nature’s growing life
But with harvest comes death’s long sharp scythe.
Harvest is a time of grief,
We tie the corn into a sheaf,
And husk and chaff we rip and tear.
Harvest is a time of woe,
We claim the seeds we helped to grow,
Cook them in a burning fire,
An oven like an ancient pyre.
We bake the bread to fill our bellies
And the corn’s great seed discovers what hell is.
A cruel time this harvest season
For summer’s high sun reveals the reason
Why we plant and why we give,
It is truly so that others may live.
Harvest is a time of death
A time to stop and take a breath
And if you live to take another
Thank the corn and bless earth mother.
Save some seeds, a few to sow,
For from this death new life may grow.

Page last updated: 1st Apr 2009