Brigid, First of My Mothers (a poem)

Strong arm holding hammer

Lifts, drops

Hard and heavy

Perfectly accurate

Divinely so.

Crafting plow,

Crafting nail,

Crafting cup,

Crafting knife.

There is nothing here that does not Work.

So much that is new now arrives in the Worlds,

And a humming arises from my Lady’s lips

A melody follows itself down this road

No, that’s not right

This road

No, neither that

This road

Ah, yes, that’s good.

Words speak themselves to her

Between hammer strikes:

Rising and falling

Rising and falling

The Fire responds to the breath of my calling

The Water awakens from deep in the ground

What died is now growing

The lost is now found

Falling and rising

Falling and rising…

My Lady waits, holds hammer still

No rhyme comes

She laughs to herself, leaves it for another time

(or is that just me?)

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