The Growing Time

Welcome to the second Monday Poem where seasons reverse from depths of Summer to first intimations of Spring. Our first Flash Fiction Friday post was set in darkest Winter, so please submit a poem (up to 40 lines) or a piece of flash fiction (150-500 words) inspired by Autumn  for publication on Cafe Aphra soon.

 ‘The Growing Time’

We stumble half-dead from winter’s withered wasteland

No march forward, we shamble into the light, blinking,

Counting losses, bellies empty, sickness survivors.

Is now the auspicious time?

Creeping light, shocks of colour, flashes of warmth

Promise change.

But we can never be certain.

Court good fortune, shape the growing year.

Propitiate our future with the right words

Quick now, make the blood token that marks

The end

And

The beginning

So that next dark-time, we will not starve or sicken

Familiar pledges fill the air

Fanning flickers of hope until belief blazes.

To appease, we take now one man, one woman.

Make them pliant with sweet drink.  Praise them for their purity,

Lavish them with words of honour and restrain their protests.

With arms, twine and whispers of hope.

Red splatters against unwilling ground

Liquid challenging dark and cold

                    Blood, light, life, growth

                    Blood, light, life, growth

                   Growing-time, remember us

                   Take account of our bargain this time.

Next, leave them, guarded, overnight - to be certain.

Spirits are suspicious after all.

At first light we’ll wrap them tightly,

Carefully, before placing them

Together – but not touching.

Never touching.  

Then, only then, can we breathe that it is done.

And make right honour to The King and Queen

of the Growing Time.

Did we do it at the auspicious time?

Absolutely and abundantly?                                                  By Q.  Irvine