Sally Plumb Plumb
Hunters moon is risen
and Septembers dusky virgins,
half naked, tight thighed
and country barefoot,
walk the scorched, dry grasses
in deep glow.
warm air about
their gentle breasts,
they sense fresh
garlanded in poppy wreaths....
love and peace.
Beneath an airy canopy
loves sacrifice released,
the moons still pendulum,
a fiery, curled light
bequeaths the rich
and fertile night
its secret, earthly rites.
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Comments about this poem (Ritual by Sally Plumb Plumb )
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