Ant Smith

Published

May Day 2014

Maybe there's a fire raging in the belly of this man

Maybe there's a soul yearning for the days of old Bealtaine

Before the feudal lord and master tied us to his land

No longer hunter gatherer but tithe born, taxed and damned

Maybe our great historians don't always tell the truth

Maybe the workers struggle in the seasons finds it roots

The hunter owes his thanks only to his arrows’ bolts

The consumer owes the banks his essence of the self

May day's no fertility dance

It's more a grim remembrance

That when we swapped our bows for hoes

We settled down in mortgaged homes.

Published