While Summer hoards his gathered wealth
of jewel-like acorns and leaves perfectly preserved
in ditches and under majestic oaks,
and, wearing his golden cloak of burnished grasses
in the wild fields under rolling hills, contemplates
his radiant festival of light in perpetuity,

Lughnasadh has already unleashed the dogs of change.

And while the laughing folk celebrate with
wine and apples,
chatting happily into the cool full-moon night,
breathing deep the lovely breezes,
admiring the shimmering trees beneath
the south-leaning light,
few realize they have succumbed
to the witchcraft that in fact has captured
the seemingly endless summer sun, and
gradually drags it toward darker places.