The Oaten Bride Vii Poem by David McLansky

The liquid spells of the Earth
Are chanted in the dark with mirth;
Naked round the jagged stone
In the moonlight on the loam,
The dancers, silver, sparkling, wet
Make the shadows pirouette;
Leaping, stomping, joy-inspired,
They circle round the fresh fed fires;
And though the night is cold with mist,
They leap with sparks and spin and twist;
Glistening wet with perspiration,
Possessed by songs in celebration;
For by this Rite of Sacrifice,
The village pays the Oat God price;

The Maiden decked in purple flowers,
Awaits the Oat God's swelling power;
For when the shadow of the moon
Cast by Blade Rock in the gloom
Does touch the polished grinding stone,
All will know the time is shown
To pierce her with the Oat Stalk Knife
To bring the Plant God back to life.

The singing mounts in celebration,
The Maiden shows no hesitation;
Honored, feted, filled with pride,
Sacred lays the Oat God's Bride:
A Goddess in the shredded mists,
An oat stalk rope bound round her wrists.