The Maiden, decked in purple flowers, <br />Dances, chants, her final hours; <br />For when the shadow of the moon <br />Cast by Knife rock in the gloom <br />Does touch the polished grinding stone, <br />All will know the time is shown: <br />To pierce her with the Oat Stalk knife <br />To bring the plant God back to life. <br /> <br />The singing mounts in celebration <br />The Maiden shows no hesitation; <br />Honored, feted, filled with pride <br />She dances as the Oat God’s bride; <br />A nymph amid the blowing mist, <br />A crumpled oat stalk in her fist. <br /> <br />Her hair is oaten like her cloak; <br />Her supple limbs gleam in the smoke; <br />On her head an oaten crown <br />Formed of oat stalks woven round; <br /> <br />What bride upon her wedding night <br />Steps so sure with foot so light? <br />What joy blooms there upon her check; <br />What rapture as she twists and leaps’ <br /> <br />The moon will summon as a bell <br />There’s magic in …<br /><br />David McLansky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-oaten-bride-2/
