"Poem for Brigid" by Aed Dubh

 

Poem for Brigid

aeddubh

For Brigid

 

My feet still in the well, cool shock of yesterday,

I look to the candle, let open my head, my heart,

My hands, then begin. It is years since I first

Reached out (hesitant? hubristical? hopeful

I hope, and certainly teetered between

Extremes), and the worn steps still lead down

Into cool clearness, scent of moss and old

Stone and clean depths; spark-bright and

Ember-dusky petals still fall from

The rose dancing in the hearth, on the wick;

Forms still elaborate, fractally implied and

Impelled by tiny and mighty forces at play.

it is Her mantle I saw first, silver river,

All the shining things about Her, bright

As Her eyes, Her smile, the fire

She cradles in Her hands, that surrounds Her.

 

The Flame of an idea

The Forge of its making

The Well of its setting into place

 

Healer, maker, granter of imbas– She

Gave so much to me, it sufficed. Not

That I denied Her other domains, or scorned them,

Just bowed and let them pass on by.

 

But that complacent wall broke, and She stood

There in the middle of the night, when the

Bothy’s wall was torn down to take the body out.

Maker of the First Keen, Her voice wound through

The mourning sobs and whiskey laughter.

Sword not hammer in Her grip, shield hand,

Not healer’s She laid between my shoulders,

Behind my heart- wordless reassurance- “I

Have your back in this. Have, and give;

Have not, and receive; lapse, and be forgiven.

Make do, do without, but always do your best.”

And now she shows in so much else-

Sunlight flowing through amber glass, sparkling

On soapsuds; the smell of spices slowly

Annealing to delight in the cooking pot;

When I make any solid thing, or beautify

The familiar, known becoming rich and strange.

 

Washer of the Dead, Bringer Into the Tribe,

Midwife of the Soul through three worlds,

I shall never, ever lose my way to her Well

As long as I can set my faltering feet on

The first steps of the path to my own heart,

Where her living flame dances, too, paired

Water and fire, as much spring as forge,

As much spark as droplet, two and three

And oh! so many, unbound by number,

Spiraling infinite in the shining flow

Of Her mantle.

  

 

 

 

 

First published 24 January 2015 on The Words Swim, Waiting.

Image: “Brigit’s Wayside Well,” Kildare by Mael Brigde (2023)