Feast of Bridget

Feile Breda*

rain left the ground black
In a fat moist hunger for seed
a sun that tempts the children
to walk home from schooling
takes the bite from the hard earth
inviting roots to delve and drink.

ghosts of folded flowers fill
the still cold space over dead
leaves and grasses yet
to be scraped to a heap,
foddering flesh for blossoms
ghosting this precious evening

Feile Breda
in this land stolen
by them stolen
from the land
your feast deserted  but
tonight your blanket spread

upon a  thorny briar will distill
the spittle of victory  on poisoned threads
bitter venom doubled to a balm
forgiveness Bridget, bless all here
heal our hearts, raped and rapist
as we spill your guts, cleanse us with your tears

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*Anglicisation of a gaelic term meaning the feast of Bridget
February 1st …(the first day of spring)