Brighide, Celtic mother
Birthing the light again, unafraid.
This is not a 'civilized' delivery
But the fire of inspiration
Burning brightly in our hearts
And over the land.
This is not a 'nice' thing
But a powerful compassionate hand.

The spiral of the shell is her home
The oyster catcher her bird
as it cries 'ghillie ghillie ghillie ghille Brighde '
'servant of Brighde'.
On the shores of the sea
St Michael gave the bird a white
cross on it's black wings
for covering her with seaweed
when the devil came looking.
So the myths and legends say.

Before christianity, back through all time
She has kept the perpetual flame.
She is there in the songs of the weaving
Present in the gleam of the sword.
She is there in the songs of the milking
And grows in the throat of the bard.
How can she be there in all birthing
Yet dead to our 'civilized' world?

Jenny Turner