I am posting a couple of poems posted before at this time of year.
Its strength lies in the fold.
You bend the rush firm and hold,
fingers fastening it to the centre.
Turn it clockwise and return,
again and again.
It’s the last rush that decides whether
your lattice will hold
or fall apart
or hang slack
woven through with chinks of light.
Stooped to the rhythm of sickle
we gathered rushes from the bog.
Or, with our hands, pulled stems
that raised wheals and reddened palms.
We lay them in piles.
Then folded and turned and turned
and folded until we made a centre
that would hold against fire.
Not knowing then that she was daughter of Dagda
Celtic Goddess, Crone turned Maiden each Spring
and that we were cutting deeper than bog
i mbolg, at imbolg.
Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2016