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| 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.
For more information about Susan Connolly,click here.
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