Lammas Eve A Poem for the Harvest’s Threshold

Lammas Eve
A Poem for the Harvest’s Threshold

Lammas Eve
On Lammas Eve, in golden hour’s breath,
When barley bends beneath the weight of sun,
And fields, now full, are seasoned for the scythe,
The old year’s green and gold become as one.
Out in the quiet hush of ripening corn,
The wind stirs secrets in the swaying grain,
And every stalk that bows before the dawn
Holds dreams of bread, of fire, and of rain.

Here, on the cusp of summer’s mellow fall,
Where daylight lingers, honey-sweet and long,
We gather first fruits, hear the robin’s call,
And mark the moment’s turning into song.
Beneath the oak, beneath the bramble’s shade,
Hands are grown rough, and baskets brim with yield.
Children chase laughter through the meadow’s glade,
While elder voices bless the open field.

A table waits, wide-planked and weatherworn,
Set with the season’s bounty, rich and fair—
Apples and oatcakes, loaves still warm from morn,
And milk and honey, offered with a prayer.
Beneath a sky that deepens into dusk,
Old stories rise with woodsmoke in the air.
The wheel, they say, turns onward as it must,
Each circle closing with a whispered care.
The bread is broken, handed round with grace,
As shadows gather softly at the gate.
A candle’s light illumines every face,
And every heart is patient, poised to wait.
For Lammas Eve is threshold, not yet end—

A promise folded in the harvest sheaf,
A song of thanks, a memory to tend,
A sigh of loss, an undercurrent grief.
Yet hope, like grain, lies hidden in the earth,
Ready to rise again beyond the frost.
What now we reap is measured not in worth,
But in the dreams we dared and what we lost.
So drink the cider, raise the cider horn,
And bless the bread, and bless the hands that sow.
Remember those who from this life are torn,
And honour all who helped the harvest grow.

The swallows wheel, the hedgerows turn to red,
The fields are stubbled, shorn of all their pride.
Yet in the granary, the future’s fed—
And every seed a secret kept inside.
O Lammas Eve, you hold us for a while
Between the growing and the letting go,
With firelit faces, laughter, and a smile
That flickers in the golden afterglow.
Let gratitude be carried on the wind,
Let every loaf be shared, and none denied.
Let old wounds fade, let new beginnings mend

As summer wanes and autumn opens wide.
Tonight we sing the songs our elders knew,
We pass the cup and taste the ancient truth:
That what we plant, and what we dare to do,
Will bless the old, and will renew the youth.
So light the fire, and let the darkness fall—
The harvest home is woven through our days.
We greet the dusk, and in its gentle call
Give thanks, give hope, and celebrate in praise.

Reflections on Lammas Eve

Lammas Eve, or Lughnasadh in ancient tradition, marks the cross-quarter festival between summer solstice and autumn equinox. It is a time of gratitude, of gathering in what the earth has given, and of preparing, both physically and spiritually, for the darker half of the year. The golden fields, heavy with promise, remind us of the cyclical nature of life—where every ending is a beginning, and every harvest sown in hope.

In many rural communities, Lammas Eve was a time of festivity and solemnity intermingled. People would bring the first wheat to be milled and baked into loaves, then offered at church or at a family altar, a symbolic act of thanksgiving. The sharing of bread stands at the heart of the ritual—a recognition that all have a place at the table, and that abundance is a gift best multiplied by kindness.

The poem above draws upon these traditions and images, weaving together the warmth of late summer, the bittersweet approach of autumn, and the enduring human need to mark the passage of time. The gathering of families and neighbours, the telling of old tales, the breaking of bread, and the lighting of candles are all echoes from centuries past—a gentle reminder that though the world changes, our longing for connection and meaning does not.

On Lammas Eve, we are invited to pause, even as life rushes on—to remember those who came before us, to treasure those beside us, and to plant hopes for those yet to come. As twilight falls and the first stars flicker, we are, for a moment, held in the hush between abundance and absence, the fullness of the fields and the quiet of the coming night.
May we, like the harvesters of old, find joy in what has grown, peace with what has passed, and courage for what is yet to be sown.