Rogationtide Poem by Giles Watson

Beating the bounds of the parish, I saw
The old gods on the outskirts, skulking in the woods.
It was all moonbreak and sunglow. Woodwales jittered.

Walking back through the graveyard, I heard
The wights on the gravestones, howling of the Flood.
They were jeering and gaping, as their tarsals clattered.

Passing close by the lychgate, I felt
The nightingales wounded, dreaming of dark.
There was japing and jarring. The fern-owls waited.

Going in through the narthex, I smelt
Fumes from the fox-spraint, stinking of blood,
With its dripping and clotting, lust unsated.

Pressing hard by the altar, I tasted
Sloe gin fermented, and bread made from bark.
The Lady was waiting; the flowers withered.