The Clootie Tree

The Clootie Tree

An ancient path still beckons,
A weary soul moves on,
Each step destiny reckons,
Priced in prayer and song;

In the mist atop the hill,
A shrub-tree stands forlorn,
Ragged ribbons for the ill
Weigh each thin branch way down;

Sliabh na nDée Dána, this mound
Of three ancient Eire gods ~
Cermait Ogma, honey-mouthed;
Of a Hundred Battles: Conn;

Last, the Dagda, god of good,
His daughter’s worshipped still ~
Noble Brigit’s stone head stood
Upon the misted hill;

Here she mourned a grievous loss,
Ruádán, her own best son,
With wailing cry, her anguish ~
Eire’s first keening echoes on;

Prayers hang upon the tree,
Offered with heartfelt song
To Brigit and the ancient Three,
For relief from ills and wrong;

The breeze blows the Clootie Tree
And tattered prayers wave ~
She sends us ease, in memory
For a son she could not save.

© Alys

28 May 2005