'Tis Imbolc

'Tis Imbolc

'Tis Imbolc,
Said the cow shed miss,
Time of owl and stag and ewe,
Still cold there,
The fields awaiting Brigid's kiss.

And SHE has birth-ed our new God,
His ruddy self, so full to grow,
We gather stones in fields,
And sharpen plows,
Want blessings for our seeds to sow.

Yes, make merry!, Yes, make joy!
Honor true our newborn sire,
Quaff spice-ed wine,
Eat new baked bread,
In conflagrated candle fire.

For now the sap begins to run,
Witch's hazel and snowdrops bloom,
The sun is higher in the sky,
Surely marks of HIS return,
And all green glory returning soon.



Robert Patterson
2008