JOHN BARLEYCORN

A metaphor for the cyclic state
Of birth death and rebirth
John Barleycorn whose avid joy
A grain with so much worth
With rose coloured and gold lashes
On the Andes you should see
A grass grown in that windswept place
Where rhymes come easily

In the valley of volcanoes
Barley patches hang
In the pinks of morning light
It’s long awned spikes that rang
Out the voice of reasoning
The spirit of the time
Chopped down and processed
Into food
And adding to our chyme

As a gruel to calm the stomach
As bread to strengthen soul
As an ale to quench the spirit
As a malt soon to console
Processed into whisky
From the green grasses of home
A hot drink in the winter
With its bitterness to roam

The mountainsides, the rugged slopes
The wicker man and all
The exuberance of Autumn
John barleycorn may call
The animals together
And feed them one by one
The barley brew that’s warming
For It comes with summers sun

The sweetness of the malting
Mugi in Japan
Salted into miso
It’s how it all began
It’s vibrancy was obvious
And in its prime we found
The harvest was predictable
Across the valiant ground

We learned it thus removing
The husk as harsh and some
and Thickened up our winter broths
When the frost made our hands numb
We drank the malted liquor
And the stronger Barley Wine
And we sat beside a raging fire
And let our heart entwine

JOhn Barleycorn An avid soul
Who shows us all how right
He takes the seed and sows it
Each clod proves at the height
The harvest at the Equinox
Provides a yearning for
Those who dance in situ
Like they never have before