Soft haze of bluebells cloaks the woodland floor.
Cream froth of lacy flowers lines the lane.
White hawthorn blooms gleam ghostly through the mist
of the first dewy dawn of May; Beltane
Untidy nests litter the grey-green water
beneath the shelter of a willow frond
where waterbirds call softly to each other
or shuffle with their brood about the pond.
The sheep and cattle, freed from winter quarters,
feed thankfully upon the cool fresh grass.
A hovering skylark sings its song above as
a silent swallow makes its swooping pass.
May morn when those who early rise may glimpse,
deep in the wood, each maiden with her swain.
A time for love and passion, hope and joy
when older folk feel young at heart again.
The powerful summer sun is wedded to
the air and water of young Mother Earth,
who pregnant with the bounty of the year,
blooms radiantly while she awaits the birth.
The maypole stands upon the village green.
Its many coloured ribbons fluttering free
until the dancers intertwine them closely.
Binding to earth the sun's fertility.
Woodlands are bearing leaves of green and bronze;
the orchard fruit trees blossoming pink and white;
the meadow grasses flowering, pollen laden;
the pasture full of buttercups so bright.
Children weave daisy chains; their elders gather
to dance and sing insweet anticipation
of welcome summer,nature's fruitfulness.
May day; a carnival, a celebration.