by Brett Rutherford
Not every virgin was ravished
in their tall ships: a few
were consigned to sacrifice,
well-fed until the day
they fed a hecatomb
reared up for the hungry gods.
In Scotland,
even among the poorest farmers,
one spot that might
have been planted is bare.
And not a rocky place, mind you,
but a fair edge or corner
with sun and soil the rye
might be a blessing in.
That patch
is called the Goodman's Croft.
Since too much greed
attracts the Devil,
who with a nod and a wink
is called the "Goodman,"
the proof is in the vacancy,
where such weeds as chance,
or demons or the fairy-folk
wish to implant, grow high
and rank until the witches
on Hallow-night, harvest
for broom and cauldron.
Fail to do this, a less-than-tithe
to dark forces, and all
the crops will fail. Why risk
starvation when the Devil
asks so little, just one bald spot
where spiders and leprous things
run riot? Avert the plow,
unfurrowed and seedless,
let Goodman's Croft be!
