Midsummer

A folk song without a tune, for the summer solstice

Given that the summer solstice is almost upon us, I decided to revisit this little poem I wrote some time ago.

I remember wanting it to read like the lyrics to an old folk song; one that had been around for decades or centuries even, maybe getting tweaked and updated occasionally.

It obviously describes the wheel of the year - the cycle of the four seasons, and the earth, personified as a woman. And it elaborates on the extremely archaic mythic drama of a fertile goddess and her consort, representing the sun, coming together in a sacred marriage or hieros gamos. At winter, the consort is ritually sacrificed to make way for the Earth Mother’s new, vivified and potent suitor at the beginning of the next cycle.

There’s a twist in that she - the Terra Mater - mourns for her lost consort. This is the tragic weight she must bear: the knowledge that her lover, who brings her into fecundity each year, is ultimately a victim who must die in order to make way for a new lover. And this is where the poem begins.

A Folk Song For Midsummer

Go down, my love, to the midden’s edge
When the land is hard and grey;
You’ll see her there upon the ground
Weeping into the clay.

Her golden locks are thick with mud;
Her limbs are pale with hoar;
But even though she mourns her loss
Her lips will kiss once more.

Go down, my love, to the gospel oak
When the orchard is in bloom;
You’ll see her sitting in the boughs
Amongst the witches’ broom.

Her dress is white, her eyes are bright;
There’s ribbon in her hair;
In hawthorn blossom she’s bedecked
All for a consort fair.

Go down, my love, to the barley field
When the green begins to turn;
And standing there amidst the crop
Her figure you’ll discern.

She’ll reach out in her nakedness,
Her cheeks a-flush with love;
Embrace her then beneath the gaze
Of the mighty sun above.

Go down, my love, to the old crossroads
When the trees are almost bare;
You’ll see her kneeling ‘neath the moon
As though she’s deep in prayer.

All dressed in black, a sickle drawn,
She’ll greet you with a sigh;
My love, I’ll not see you again -
She needs you more than I.