I think my people used to light fires
this night on hilltops to mourn
the end of summer, to impregnate
the coming darkness.
The great god Lugh is dead
and life goes on.
That’s the hope.
There were always fires on hilltops
but now, at last, some balance,
deep inside the cave of my body,
creating shadow plays of stories
older than my own, older than Lugh,
than hope. No need (now,
at last) for stasis. My every niche
and nerve is fired with the potential
to lighten up, to let go.
S. Robbins, from Readings