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An dà shealladh


One-eyed winter, bent-backed hag, she

slopes across the shadowed corries,
harvesting the weak and wasted,

rinsing Alba with her wake.


I have seen her, outside in and
boiling through the mists of Mary’s

mildness, driving ice before her,

genesis beneath her feet.


Throw your words of he-said, he-said,

jealous black and whitely righteous,

onto fires of harvest’s ending,

Cailleach cannot see a cross.


Call the mists to veil the vistas
ancient under concrete scarring;
none may yoke her, land or lady:
she is threefold, she is one.


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