Brighid: The White Maiden
The heady scent of reddened apples greets her
As she strolls leisurely into her misted garden.
Shamrocks, heather, and snowdrops,
Follow in her footprints’ wake.
Sparkling drops of light shower down from the greenery,
As she passes by,
Eager to revel in her beauty,
The red of the morning sun—
Feigns to scorch her golden hair.
But alarm does not arise in her breast,
For sunrise encompasses her domain.
Her healing touch sparks life in the surrounding beauty,
While a steel blade forged by her own hand sways on her hip.
Rhymes and images entwine her thoughts,
As Imbolc begins on this morn.
Already she prepares herself for the long day ahead,
For there is no rest to be had for a Goddess,
Especially one as greatly loved as she.