of Our Lady

The fields are all rust after the spring rain,
And the sky descends heavily, compressing the light
In which only the early insects are at home,
Silent, moist, flickering towards nightfall.
Should not this be Our Lady’s season,
The Assumption of Mary
In April’s bright showers and all that blue?
Rainbows and new lambs;
Sharp shadows rushing across the limestone.
In the courts of heaven it was put to Our Lady,
This matter of her Feast Day.
She said, ‘No, not that cold spring
With its bright nails,
Love lifted up against the cruel sky:
Give me Our Father’s ripening,
And grace descending in the August rain,
Even as I rise.’

Peter Mullen