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CORN DOLLY

Watch her as she moves through golden waves
Where ears ripen beneath the summer sun
Now reapers move across the field, leaving swathes
Binders follow making sheaves; a harvest won
From the soil we have tilled.
Grain that in winter can be milled.

There’s a gentle swish of sickles through the stalk
John Barleycorn is falling to the ground
The rig moves on; girls exchanging daily talk
As carefully they bind each sheaf around
Sweating children work to stook
Where mothers have no time to look.

At eventide the sun falls below the dripping brow
Ceres’ row still stands against the blackthorn hedge
Her spirit to be beaten back where the oxen plough
When winter’s solstice comes they’ll make a pledge
Now its time for sing of joy and mirth
Celebrate the bounteous Mother Earth

Though the bedstraw beckons weary bairns for sleep
And dreams of bitter ales beckon to parched lips
At the centre of the field there’s still a sheaf to reap
The reapers face the stand with hands on hips
Each takes his turn to throw
His sickle at this final row.

To reap the clyack sheaf as custom now demands
Each man in turn the blindfold takes
Thrice times three is turned around by other hands
The sickle then cast forth to the fates
The victor knows from others’ cheer
He shall claim the flowing jug of beer

Rituals that have been passed down to us from ancient times
As these last stalks are gathered up with care
Straw woven with skilled hands to once forgotten rhymes
A neck dolly crafted by young Cerys the fair
’Could this be Cybele, mother of gods ?’
Her grandmother raises her eyes and nods.

Neck dollies, drop dollies, Brigit’s and kirn child
Some dressed in gay ribbons, others in white
Thin bodies, full bodies, some pagan and wild
Carried home on the last of the wagons tonight
Tokens to hang on each farmhouse wall
To be raised in the spring, a spirit to call.

Under late summer sun sheaves are ripened and dried
The wagons are loaded until Baba remains
Rigs of reapers make circles whilst she is untied
Each takes a step forward and ears are claimed
There’s a bow to the centre from all around
Each reaper touching an ear to the ground.

When all have departed two strangers enter the field
Oat man and oat woman with a dance to perform
Beneath long purple cloaks their dolls are concealed
A grim reaper beheaded, a spirit to enter the corn
The rite of an old Phrygian sacrifice
Crying the neck to bring next year’s life.

© David Hopcroft July 2001