Brigid comes in the early light,
her hands warm with the promise of flame,
her breath the scent of hearth and fields.
She enters with the dawn,
soft as the whisper of embers,
steady as the forge in midwinter.
You do not fear her.
She is gentle,
with the eyes of a healer
and the touch of spring.
But beneath the quiet lies a fire,
and she has come to tend it.
She sits at your table,
where the bread has grown stale
and the kettle has long gone cold.
"I have nothing to give you,"
you murmur,
offering the last of what you have.
But Brigid does not need what you can offer.
She has brought her own gifts—
the spark of inspiration,
the healing balm for old wounds,
the poetry hidden in the bones of the earth.
She places her hands on your heart,
and you feel it—
the weight of iron,
the pulse of the forge.
In her touch is a memory
of things you thought you had lost—
the song of rivers,
the scent of wildflowers,
the flame that once danced
behind your eyes.
Your dog lies at her feet,
calm as if he has always known her,
and outside, the first light breaks the horizon.
You cough,
and a flame flickers in your throat.
Brigid smiles,
and you feel the heat rise in your chest,
a warmth you had forgotten.
"Why do you hide your fire?" she asks,
and you say,
"I was afraid to burn."
But Brigid knows—
you were born to blaze,
to carry the light
through the darkest nights,
to be the flame that warms,
the forge that shapes.
She lifts a handful of ashes
from the hearth,
and with a breath,
they become stars.
In her presence,
the room shifts—
the walls glow with the memory of creation,
the floors hum with the pulse of life.
Outside, the land begins to stir.
The fields stretch wide,
and the old stones ring with song.
In the distance,
the old gods, kings and queens, and warriors rise from their graves,
their armour gleaming in the light of her flame.
You rise with them,
the heat of the forge in your veins,
the spark of poetry on your lips.
Brigid nods,
and with a flicker of her hand,
the embers ignite once more.
She will not stay.
She never does.
But her flame remains—
burning in the hearth,
lighting the way.
And when she leaves,
the fullness of dawn will follow,
golden and bright,
bringing the promise of new beginnings.
You stand in the doorway,
watching as she walks into the light,
and for the first time in a long while,
you feel the warmth of the sun on your face.
Tara Shannon ***Inspired by Tom Hirons, Sometimes a Wild God
Image: “Photo taken by me (Tara Shannon) of the sunrise reflecting through a lantern hanging just outside my front door.”
