Hymn to Brigid

Ask her †
where those wells touch sunlight; †
where water kisses fragrant air †
bursting with daisies, sweet honeysuckle †
where she guides ink in heathen hands †
pressed against warm sheets of paper, †
word becoming thought, †  
thought becoming deed, and deed †
becoming reason in humble retreat. †  
Ask her †
where Celtic blood quakes in the eaves †
of an oak-bound house, where children †  
gather around Motherís milk, a fire roars,
part faith, part God in the arms †  
of the hopeless. She moves †  
dew-wet in morningís breath, †
a tongue of scarlet smouldering †  
with the ache of an ancient sun. †
Ask her †
how her eyes burn in the telling, †
how her heart is home, beating †
and alive in springís relentless call †
trails of coltsfoot and celandine †
gathering beneath coats of green. †
How she is dandelion, and bee †
in their greatest symphony, a dance †
in the strange light of dreaming.

Written by Northern_Soul (-Missy-)
Author's Note
Letters to the Old Ways
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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