I weave reeds for a woman who flew with swans. I’m minded of Native American legend, of the woman who fell from the stars and created Turtle Island. She had sweetgrass, we had bog rushes. We share the same story. The Time of honouring the Goddess in all women is begun. As I make my determination for this new Spring, I vow to appreciate my own life, and be more Brigid.

Saint Brigid

Chocolate on bread days

Were lifting the spuds from the field days

Feast days for holy men,

Like Don Bosco and the Pope.

Two fingers of milk chocolate

To melt in your teaTo spread on bread – was a treat.

We sat at refectory tables.We were watched by nuns.

Dunking, smearing

Not caring about the green mould,

Grabbing for the heel

Wanting butter.

Thirty five years ago in County Offaly

The girls from the boarding school

Dug their spuds

On breakfasts of chocolate on bread.

While priests watched.

Then we prayed on our knees

To be good for the men.

Mother Goddess was vanished, replaced with Eire Free.

On February First we did not pray to Saint Brigid,

Or make crosses.