Brigid of the sheep,
the ox, the boar,
defining green field
and greener wood.
Brigid the smith,
Iron heart healer
protector of first lands.
Each crag, hill, shore
brimming bolt blue.
A northern night
laced twice in stars.
Twice again in deities
and light-hearted half gods
dispersing seed,
song, wine, wisdom.
Frivolous to the fragility of
newness, which holds
even gods to laws
leaving Brigid unable
to heal, reforge, make new—
her son Ruadán,
lost to battle.
Sending
her to her knees
with its weight
to breathe the land
and release it in
A woeful keen.
An empty epitaph.
A spear shaped heartbreak
that bled the blue,
flung wide the stars,
and wrapped each
bog and inlet in
the grief
of emerald green.
| Mary J. Daley lives with her husband in New Brunswick, Canada. They have two adult daughters, one on each coast. When not writing, Mary is mucking stalls or trying to grow things. She has had a previous career as a registered nurse. Her publishing credits include On Spec, Triangulation, Lore, Every Day fiction and others. |  |