WASSAIL

The rain-clouds lifted and the fierce wind dropped.

We wrapped up warmly, gloved, and wellie-shod

equipped with ancient words we should have learned,

a can to rattle with a wooden spoon.

We carried blazing torches on long poles

banging and rattling through the puddled lanes

(our leader blew a Crumhorn he had made)

to visit gardens where the apples grow.

We came to wassail a village apple trees

surrounded them and tapping them with sticks

entreating each to prosper bloom and bear.

Tucked cider-soaked toeast in among the twigs-

the robins' treat. The men among us lifted up their hats

beseeching of the trees a crop to fill - caps

buckets, baskets and some left to make

a precious little heap under the stairs.

A bonfire greeted us at 'Silverdale'

it's golden sparks rising to a cloudless sky

where Venus shone alone.

There we were welcomed in for food and drink.

Once home I went out to my apple tree

asking for bounty this year, giving thanks

for last years crop. Those 'Greensleeves'

could suggest another song.

- on Prose with my chaperone

M Smythe 80