Early spring just past Imbolg
And among the still-dark hawthorn
Garlands. Posies for Bride, white
amid the black thorns.
I make a mark on paper, a scribbled map.

In the set-aside a lengthy stretch
sparkles in strengthening sunlight.
Each tiny bloom a promise of dark richness
for later, when all nature sleeps.  Another mark.

Then I forget.  Put the map aside.
May blossom swallows the hedgerows,
Beltaine finds birds nesting,
And weeks on, at Lughnasad with its tired greens,
twigs snap and insects hum as I pass.

But Samhaine beckons.  I unfold the sheet and scan.
Muffled in scarf and hat I search for treasure.
Luxuriant fruit, not black but mauve and frosted,
firm to the touch and heavy in the basket.
Buoyant in the bottle, colouring sugar to deep red.

At Yule, with the birth of the light, the first taste.
It rolls like honey on my tongue and
I glow like solstice sunshine,
while among the still-dark hawthorn
She is sparking the life force.