keeping the lion's mouth open

for  st. brigid-patron saint of the arts, healing and nature


for heaven falls, to meet up
with earth rising, wind skimming the surface
fires are born deep deep deep
beneath the crust of humble bread

our woodsman pan would find quite neat
he'd sit down and polish off an entire loaf

in between courting dear liza, the buttermilk queen,
Just down the lane.

they'd learn the fine art of goat grazing, cheese melding
barn raising, dyes from berries grasses and tree bark
incising secrets--burning hearts in thick inflexible bark
following you down the lane with buttermilk biscuits

playing croquet in the fanciest of parks
striking the mallet to the glass green ball
there she goes, side stepping her opponent
throughout the grey pallets, down the dry river bed

and lets herself rest there, unaccompanied instead

all grows quiet at dusk
the village returns to how it was before
this gran dame came round and did double cartwheels
in the park after dark

it was a festive night, no fright-
without a stranger in sght;
jonquils jump over picket fences in camden

culling cuttlefish at dawn at the docks
when the first fishing boat pushes off
at the first peep of sunrise coating
every pine frond, just as merry as you please
for the depth of the bay
there will be rum and rough play
but they'll all come home again

swinging fishing gear like healthy men
shining from capturing the saltiest of fish
dining on love's providence, as they do pray

Poem and photo~by Kate Lamberg
all right reserved..(c) '13