Fiery Brigid Poet's muse, Dagda's fiery child; Brigit's feast of Imbolc hastens nigh. And in the stillness of the night a wild And fiery happiness can grow bright and high. The embers of hope of Spring will turn to blaze Within our hearts, and longing for the whir And gentle bustle of life in springtime days Will give us joy as in the winter life will stir. And is the lady of this day a Saint Or Dagda's Threefold Daughter, smithing's friend? Does it matter? Are not her wells of taint Still free? So does it matter in the end? And so is born again the fiery feast Of Imbolc-time, a joy for folk and beast. copyright E Glas Durboraw, February 1, 2002