In the Name of the Mothers

It is a clear channel
From Brigid, the master-poet,
To Brigid of Kildare,
Donor of milk and butter,
Down generations
To this one dairymaid,
Bridget O’Keeffe
Of our Co. Cork Bweeing:
A woman so familiar
With that daily miracle
Of the five loaves.
It was a maker’s gift
She passed to another Bride,
Lovely as a rose after giving birth,
When she placed a newborn
Girl upon a mother’s breast,
A mouth that cried, in time,
As Brighid the poet.

Heaven’s mother, maid of Earth,
Teach me to pace all wisdom, all healing,
To keep the channel open
Unto worthy completion—
Not to drop milk or stitch
In this long web of maidens.

In Ainm na Máithreacha

In Ainm na Máithreacha

Síneann slabhra slán
Ó Bhrigit, bé na filíochta,
Trí Bhrighid Chill Dara,
Bronntóir ime agus bainne
Anuas trí na glúnta
Go dtí an gcailín déiríochta,
Brighid Ní Chaoimh,
Ó Bhinn na Míol, i gCo. Chorcaí;
Bean gur ghnách léi
Míorúilt na gcúig mbuilín
A dhéanamh gach lá;
Shin sí sin an lúb chuig Brighid eile,
Caomh mar rós ar a leaba luí seoil
Nuair a leag sí a gariníon
Nua-shaolaithe ar ucht na máthar,
Bunóc gur dhein Brighid file di
I  bhfaid na haimsire.
 
A mháithreacha neimhe agus talún,
Deonaíg’ dom tíos, fios is leigheas
A raghaidh chun tairbhe dár gcine
Is a bheidh mar mhaise
In áit an lúib ar lár
I ngréasán na hiomláine.