Light of Lammas.
Dew-drunk and tipsy with Time,
Skewed, slewed, slaughtered.
The slow, steady sun fires the cloudbanks,
Silver, silver, the grinding stones spill silver.
Seed nods, falls gold, is gathered in.
The scorched path, the well-worn path,
The weave of light that webs the world.
Morning my breakfast, twilight my supper.
This spirit-filled world exactly like no other.
Burn the seeds of concept
In the furnace of the dawn.
Dreaming is the clue
To the nature of things,
Laying light upon Lammas morn.
“Light of Lammas” an original print by Simon H Lilly
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