A Wassailling

From cold winter’s wassail we called to the old gods.
Fire and drum,
Cider and song
We spoke to the night, and waked the sleeping land

Came tentative spring all around began rousing
Bud and shoot
Flower and fruit
They bathed in the sunshine and new April’s shower

In high leafy boughs the blossom is growing
Blushing and bursting
Bees and Buzzing
The song of the garden and a promise of apples.

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