Lammas

Lammas

Ancient of days, the tribe travelling:
History nomadic, often unravelling;
Following the prey, to hunt and kill:
The tribal glory, for good and ill;
Fleeing the ice sheets of the North,
Frozen touch of gods brings forth;
Land in icy shroud, the fingers numb,
Southwards still the glaciers come;
Stone axe and flint to make our fire,
The hunt, the feast is our desire;
But those grown old, are left behind:
The nomadic life is never kind;
Until one day, one year, one time,
We settled in a warmer clime,
And the wild wheat began to take,
Grind up and bread began to make;
The wattle huts, the potter’s clay,
A settled life for us, a better way;
The milling stone, the fields white,
The harvest was a lovely sight;
And as many centuries go past,
The miller’s craft will always last;
The reaping in the fields today:
And first fruits of the harvest day;
Not for granted, this bread of life:
Especially in our world of strife;
For our good harvest, let us pray:
Still give thanks on Lammas day.