Image by Simon Berger via Unsplash

Brigid came on the wind

Blessing the brat bhríde

Soaking it with cool rain

Not quite winter waters

Not quite springtime showers

Tears from that in-between

Liminal state of season

A grief, a keening for the darkness

Slowly washing away

In the inevitable turn

Of the Earth.

She stroked gentle fingers

Down the cloths hanging

From trees, posts, baskets

Sprawled on Hawthorn

Or tucked into cracks

Waiting for her blessing

Draped in hope and faith

Those gentle fingers

Bely great power

Surging fire and weight

Filling smiths and poets

With inspiration that burns

Like the forge fire

The wind her bellows

Pumping, coaxing

Drawing out something new

Something new for Imbolg.

Great Brigid

Do you coax forward

The snowdrops too?

The first lambs, staggering,

Uncertain and fragile

Yet joyous in life

As we are before

Your mighty presence?

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