Bealtaine

May Day
A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
Is everywhere.
Red small leaves of the maple
Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
The pear trees stand.
Oh I must pass nothing by
Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
The grass with my touch;
For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?
Sara Teasdale (1884 – 1933)


Plenty of wild wet earth here today and not much shining. It's cold and lashing. I arose and washed my face in the rain dew as is customary but not much larking around maypoles. A hasty May posey was gathered from the soggy garden.
Bealtaine here - the arrival of summer according to the ancient Celtic calendar and marked with bonfires all over the place - especially at Uisneach - the omphalos (just love this word) or navel of Ireland, marked by a colossal boulder. A wild and fiery festival will be going on there tomorrow come hell or high water!
May Eve backblip