BRÍDEOG

My one is a strange mix of rushes,

tall grasses, wild millet – leftovers

for winter gathering.

She has no eyes to see.

No ears to hear.

No mouth to speak.

Her small waist sinched 

with a band

from a bunch of spring onions,

wrapped in rogue twine

I found

in my father’s pocket.

Legless, her full broomcorn skirt

holds kernels that will never know

the buried weight of soil,

the floury crush for bread,

or stalk a floor

swept clean for guests.

Her stiff arms are as a cruciform

scarecrow.

This doll’s not made for hugging.

I crowned her with dead shoots

from the pond where my man once said:

I will love you in your sickness.

My Brídeog is not holy,

but she is my offering -

dried by a hundred suns,

Brigid’s suns –

woven by desperate fingers

with deep intent.

My dollmaking ancestors

sought less:

not a whole healing,

but alms,

pennies,

a bit of currant cake.

Held in procession,

those turnip-headed effigies

with button eyes, wooden teeth,

a baby’s white dress

for warmth

and ritual,

were carried by a crowd

to a bodhran’s beat - a pulse -

for the people’s saint, Mary of the Gaels.

My Brídeog is too fragile

for such a celebration.

She would untangle. And so would I.

A match spark could eat her

in an instant like those withies

thrown on the Kildare pyre.

This is by design.

If I can keep her together,

she can keep me safe.

I hang my Brídeog in my hallway,

to seek her in the narrow places,

at the thin points,

there for when I am churned up

on the threshold of my front door,

or on life’s backfoot –

a talliswoman,

to call me to Brigantia, Biddy, Bríd –

that holy woman born under a sun dog,

a triple halo in blessed skies,

with sunbeams strong enough to hang

a faith on.

Across the ages we hear her name

echo in our devotion,

to worship, to learning, to wells.

We feel her in the hallowed

breath of bellows

on perpetual flames.

I see her in my Brídeog,

all those dolls hanging by a thread

in the hallways of the faithful.

Catherine Cronin / January 2024