How the firewheel rolled
over the midsummer hills,
while bonfires were lit,
all throughout the land.
Processions of torches,
through the solstice fields,
wearing chaplets of mugwort,
and woven vervain.

How they looked at the fire,
through the larkspur held in their hands,
keeping safe the season,
and the dreams of bright fertile lands.

How the straw was brought in,
from every clan,
on hilltops gathered,
by children and men.
The flames to signal,
the valley below.
Bright flames to remember,
what they already know.

And they drove the wheel into the waters,
like the sun sinking into the western sea.
As they had done a thousand years ago,
as they done in an elders memory.

As they departed,
they cast the chaplets into the fire
and bid farewell to sorrows,
taken by the smoke.
That good omens may soon return,
that the guardians of harvest,
might be awoken.

In the morning they gathered in the valley,
at the place of the standing stones.
And as the high sun passed across the sky,
the shadows told us stories
of a flame so close.

And the fields were blessed with music,
and the trees were blessed with light
And we welcomed in the coming darkness
through the fires of a midsummers night.