The bells of St Brigid are calling
tonight,
green rush crosses hang on kitchen
walls
and warm glows light the windows.
Enter, Goddess... Saint.
Hang your cloak on a moonbeam.
Spring is here in longer days
and the yellowing of gorse in the
valley.
Let the festivals begin: flowers,
flames
and food;
fresh incarnations of old mysteries
where the blood of the
lamb flows in grotesque substitute
for the milk of the
ewe.
But spring stands for regeneration
whatever colour the candles
you light. And soon swallows
will return to rebuild nests
in the crumbling ruins of last year's
shelters.
