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.