Dawn blossoms May’s moon,
tempts white-winged moths
to worship the dew.
The widow of Coomcallee limps
the river bank, seeks the shallows,
water shushing pebble, stone.
She scatters primrose and violet
while sun mounts the blue, rowan and hawthorn
shivering with faerie breath.
A kestrel cries
over the chatter of ash branches.
Two men urge cows into fields
between stacked wood,
and village girls curtsy the maypole.
Candles balance on windowsills,
tempting the flames of this night.
Come to the fire when the mist
closes in, sing and shout and dance.
Don’t look far into the dark,
just hold out your hand to ward off the stars
and believe the morning will win.