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Sophia Michaels reads her poem ‘A Thousand Beats’. Taken from her book ‘Deep I’

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CONCEALED

A pocket full of love, long in the weaving,
is worn secretly between waiting breasts
through the coldest of dark winter months
when all seems lost to Cailleach’s white spell.

The protected pocket glows more brightly
with each poem penned through the night,
with each spontaneously given gift,
with each unexpected phone call.

Come Beltane, Nature’s energies erupt !
Hung from a red neck-ribbon, the pocket
bounces into view as the Maypole dance
weaves a plait of rainbow-chakra colours,
both seen and unseen.

But she who wears the pocket full of love
does not yet go off to the Hawthorn woods
to commune among the white blossom of May
as the Goddess and the Horned God will.
No, not yet.

Kaaren Whitney

Beltane Friends

Through the brightly coloured silken fronds, swirling
and plaiting around the old ship’s mast,
flashes a vision: Fresh-faced young sailor,
dancing the hornpipe.

Now, with grey beard and boots strapped tightly, to hold
aching ankles, your legs again take flight,
sending you skipping, with pigtail flying,
around the maypole.

My smile meets yours, as we duck and weave, ribbons
of laughter flicker through the dusk,
squeezed accordion notes impel our feet
on to the end.

Beltane fires send out sparks, like shooting stars, and
light up glowing faces, raised in prayer,
ignite hope in our hearts, for we leap, hands clasped,
over the embers.

When we leave, the ritual ended, you are lighter
of step, although tired, we are wreathed in serene smiles,
a dark shadow has lifted, dancing strangers become friends,
in the magic of
this night.

Wendy Alford

Beltain Morning

Through bright bird-song,
early mist,
seep shades of yellow,
scented carpet.

Nearby woodland paints the haze,
delicate blue,
which trees transcend to green,
bare branches dangle mini suns,
as jewellery.

Woodpecker drums on the hollow,
eye bright Fox,
wet pawed,
steals between Bluebells.
　
Simon Sawyer