"By Brigit’s Day"

By Brigit’s Day

milk retreats to the cow’s horns

from Christmas to Imbolc—

with your return

the cow gives milk again

wild birds mate

jackdaw and grey crow

the hen’s egg   brooded

hatches safe and strong

nothing in water

or on the ground

is not thinking of propagation

the farmer knows it

if he has not written his name

on the land by Brigit’s day—

his work is late

Copyright Casey June Wolf (2013)

Source: The Festival of Brigit, Séamas Ó Catháin (1995)

“Brigit”: a Poem by Susan Connolly

 Irish Foxes by Ken Billington 

Brigit

Susan Connolly

1.

Run, little fox,

past hermit cell

and derelict castle,

past river and monastery

and quaint rose cottage.

Through oak wooded

centuries

weaving your way—

run swiftly now

in the open air.

Brigit called a wild fox

out of the forest.

That fox was you!

You played for a while

and went safe

through the forest,

the king on his horse

after you.

Brigit hung her wet robe

to dry on a ray of sun.

If they touched

her shadow

the sick were healed.

'Every stranger is Christ,'

she said, and gave

to everyone.

People came to visit her.

A playful fox drew near.

She believed in mercy.

In the doorway of her

mother's house at sunrise

Brigit was born.

A fox howled

the day she died.

2.

Brigit—

we name our daughters

after you,

Brigit, Breege, Breda.

After our mothers, sisters

friends

we call our daughters

Bri'd, Bridie, Biddy.

Daylight will be cold

if your name fades

from our lips,

like a fire gone out

forever.

At the edge of Cuan wood

the fox goes,

no king of Leinster with him now,

though the same land

stretches away.

Brigit—

bright stillness in the sky

while I live stormily

below—

bright spark within

Brigit buadach

Beth ad heo. *

*Victorious Brigit,

The living one of life.

 The Poetry Ireland Review, No. 57 (Summer,1998),

pp. 53-54

For more information about Susan Connolly,click here.