Under Meath’s glistening night sky, Brighid
enters each candlelit hut. She blesses
sleepers, their simple gifts, small dolls they hid
for her to find, sets them beside crosses
at the door as a sign. She steps through fields
to pray over sheep, reads their wandering,
touches each ewe’s breasts to assure she yields
milk. She climbs Tara’s Hill, softly singing
of coming spring; sits a while at the Mound
of the Hostages, praying rising sun
aligns with its inner chamber. The ground
sings back to her: now rebirth has begun.
The goddess stands and studies all. She’ll take
Blackthorns, kiss them, leave before her throng wakes.
Roger Armbrust
February 2,
2014
