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.
