Maypole

Centre of the village, focus of historic fears,
Children dance to the old songs, dark rhythms in their blood
Unconsciously following the final rite in innocent passage,
Like the deathwatch beetle scurrying ahead in the lane
Home to his hole in the ground before the rain comes,
Pouring on young heads as they scatter in streams.
So the dance begins.

White men come suited in spring as at no other time,
The ancient of watchers recalled to life in field days.
Clack of sticks ringing in the wakening air.
Coarse and competent alike execute their moves,
Partners to the slow strains of the music,
Not knowing that death will come to call.
So the dance goes on.

The last drop of rain falls on bright streamers,
Summer not yet out of the woods and in the village.
Time for the last reel before the music stops,
Waiting for the crops to spike the dark-ridged earth
While the recruitment tent calls them to push up the poppies
Before that still and holy night in December.
So the dance never ends.