By Doireann Ní Ghríofa
When rain fell on a path of stone,
one by one, we appeared alone.
Each of us wore a different face,
but we were all the same –
drawn by ache to lift green latches,
drawn by want to walk the dark
passage. Past paper stares, we knelt
and wept, we who fed the well in rivulets,
whose plunged wrists trembled
with vessels of blue violets.
We each spoke a spell of stone
and in her gloom heard prayers turn poems.
Ask her, Bríd, what will be
come of us?
Listen. Liquid, the syllables;
the echo, luminous.
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My Friday was about unpacking, sorting, uploading photos, and endless laundries, still going because our dryer temperature control wheel broke so it only works on low now, which is great for not shrinking shirts but takes forever to dry jeans. We took a break for a quick walk to the park, where the leaves are falling and the eagles have returned, and we spent a lot of time snuggling our cats, who contrary to their claims appear to have been fed while we were away.
We caught up with the final two episodes of Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power long distance with Cheryl, which I really enjoyed, particularly since I just reread The Silmarillion and part of The Fall of Númenor on the planes to and from Ireland. Now we're catching up on something just as profound, the season premiere of The Masked Singer -- come on, it has a Footloose episode! Here are some photos from Brigid sites all over Ireland:
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