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At Imbolc
by Alison Jones

It is the year’s greening time,
when snowdrops raise their whitened heads,
for candlemass, church bells will chime,
while time is pulled on springtime’s threads.

Holy wells are decorated,
with flowers, leaves and ribbons bright,
the return of spring is celebrated,
with buds and catkins now in sight.

At the hearthside, formed with rushes,
Bridey’s bed has now been made,
gently woven with loving touches,
to welcome in the holy maid.

Clad in white, with arching swans wings,
she brings with her the lightening shawl,
at the anvil where her heart sings,
the land rises up from beneath the pall,

of the Cailleach, now retreating,
to the mountains and her rest;
in the meadows lambs are bleating,
brought forth at sweet Bride’s behest.

Take the healing of the Ewe’s milk,
like sap formed strong within the birch,
bless the candles in the bright brink,
of holy well or sacred church.

Within the bright eyed cross of Bridey,
shines the hope for all the year,
so be merry! Share good tidings,
of the gladdening, greening earthly sphere.

*        *        *

At Imbolc © Alison Jones 2006


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