Merry Imbolc/Imbolg/Candlemas~

[mermaiden]

(A participation in the Fifth Annual Brigid Poetry Slam.) In honor, celebration and reverence of Brigid, my matron Goddess, I present this poem on the holy day of Imbolc~

"Unaware"

She had long, red curls, and an upturned mouth
That looked always ready to smile,
Her feet were weathered, not soft,
She always felt cold,
She couldn't remember a time
When the sea didn't sing her to sleep.

She had a lovely cloak
Full of holes
And a staff from a fallen tree
That could not be burned,
And when she spoke, the sheep listened,
Or perhaps they didn't,
But she spoke anyway.

The people would kneel to her, someday,
They would call her names, pretty names,
And tell stories about her hands,
Her mantle,
Her hair,
Her well,
Her iron,
Her magic.

Did she know? Did she know as she sang
The same song her mother had,
And her mother before her,
That she was something more than the red-headed girl
Of the bog, of the sheep, of the tattered cloak?

Someday, she would be a goddess made saint,
They would kiss her image, painted in churches,
They would cast circles,
Make charms,
Breathe her name at sunset, as before and again.

But not today.

The little lamb limped, she'd carried him,
She sang the same song,
She laughed, a lovely laugh,
And she broke the ice in the river,

A Goddess unaware.