Bob MacKenzie - A Canadian Poet (He eats the goat)

Ceremony by Bob MacKenzie

When the Sun is at his highest,
and not looking,
I lean against the western edge,
and I wait there.

My servants build a cage of stone,
bed and circle,
eleven watchers and the trap
set near the edge.

He will be hungry at day's end,
ready for goat:
at the centre of the circle
the feast is laid.

Quietly we watch him coming,
our eyes his fire,
our souls reaching from our white robes:
we slay the goat.

The scent of goat roasting rises,
filling the skies,
tempts the Sun descending to us:
priests in his name.

The goat leads the Sun to the gate,
and wind rises;
under the table stone he rests:
a ball of fire.

I take the sun in my right hand,
fire on my palm;
a ball of fire between my hands,
I raise them high.

I am fire: before me all bow,
eyes averted,
revering the Sun incarnate:
I eat the goat.

The wind rises and the light fades,
and they bow still:
when at last they dare raise their eyes,
the Sun has gone.

My priests lay me on the table,
and wait my soul:
when I return the Sun has gone
over the edge.