All Hail the Dying God!

All hail the dying God!
Lugh la Gyffes,
Lugh of the long arm of summer.

The natives speak of the give away,
The gifts of death.

So hot,
The hills the gold of late August,
Under the early July sun.
The river arching its spine
As it writhes between baked fields.

Black berries sweet and plump on the cane,
Belying the haze of fire in the air,
And the ripe red sun,
Rising and setting on burning forests.

All hail the dying god.
John Barleycorn.
Seed heads ready to spill their gifts on parched earth,
Yearning for fall's kiss,
Winter's sleep.

Verasion come too soon,
Like a purple bruise on too full vines,
Small and hard in the bitter sun.
All hail the dying god!

Three deer,
        A sheep,
               A skunk,
All sacrifices to the gods of asphalt and steel.
Bloating bodies,
       Legs like clock hands,
Pointing the hours towards release.

Dust devils swell up
 from the footsteps of the field hands path,
Sheep stretched like pearls,
 against the hills throat.
And Mars rises like a burning chariot
Riding the southern sky,
And the planets dance their retrograde,
And all bear the weight of the season
Like a yoke.

All hail the dying god!
And the gifts of waning,
    Of ending, 
        Of the sweetness of release.

Telling time by the vines,
       The clocks tick of the bees hum,
           The rising of the blood moon,
And all sigh with relief into night's embrace.

All hail the dying God!