Imbolg

I'm late for Brigit's Day but am posting these couple of poems again.

Brigit’s Cross

Its strength lies in the fold.

You bend the rush firm and hold,

finger fasten it to the centre

Turned clockwise and returned,

again and again, it’s the last rush

that decides if your lattice will hold

or fall apart or hang slack

woven through with chinks of light.

At Imbolg

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 and folded
and turned and turned and folded
until we made a centre

that would hold.

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 2017