Sheela Na Gig

by Bill Lewis

Wind kissed are my tumuli.

Wet mud sucks the iron spade.

Anoint this nub of my flesh

for it is the hub of my wheel.

It is the polar axis of the,

spinning palace of the year.

Caress this crevice of clay

with agriculture and archangels.

Rub the plough with fennel and

incense, hallowed soap and salt.

Ride me with hobby horses and

dig me with the archaeology of

Furrow me with antler picks.

Sow me with semen of light,

the oyster ejaculations of dawn,

I pull back the moss-moist labia

and you see the winter is pregnant

with the spring and spring has

summer curled fetal in her womb.

And inside summer, autumn waits

dreaming in golden hibernation.