Lá Fhéile Bhríde

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.