Imbolc: A Poem

From 27th January 2005 comes this poem on Imbolc.

Ronald Hutton, writing in "The Stations of the Sun", says of Imbolc that the feast, which takes place on 1st February, 

...marking the end of winter and the opening of spring, is cited repeatedly in the early medieval literature under the names Imbolc, Imbolg, or Óimelc; asthe 'b' in the first two is silent and the first syllable in the last is a short 'i', the different words have a very similar pronunciation, as 'imolk' or 'imelk'. 

It was placed in the Roman calendar, adopted by the Irish by the time that written records begin, on 1 February. The festival must be pre-Christian in origin, but there is absolutely no direct testimony as to its early nature, or concerning any rites which might have been employed then. 

There is, in fact, no sign that any of the medieval Irish writers who referred to it preserved a memory of them, and some evidence that they no longer understood the meaning of the name itself. 

Sanas Chormaic, a glossary probably produced around the year 900, suggested that it originally meant 'sheep's milk', a derivation which modern Celticists have pointed out to be linguistically impossible. The latter part of the word, however, certainly has something to do with milking, so that Emer's comment must be near the mark: that this is the time when ewes begin to lactate. 

Eric Hamp has recently suggested, by analogy with other old European languages and customs, that the Old Irish words for milk and milking derived from a lost Indo-European root-erm for 'purification', and that this was the aim of the festival; but this remains a speculation.

Imbolc

This is the wolf-month, savage, bitter
The icy wind brings worst of Winter
February is harsh , cold and drear
Also the dead-month, the time of fear.

But new life springs even in the cold
Ravens build nests, larks singing bold
Lambs are born, new blades of grass
Time of light in dark, of Candlemas.

The Cailleach, old woman of Winter
Ends her rule, even seeming colder
Reborn a young maiden of Spring
Bride comes, birds begin to sing.

Bride with her white wand brings
Breath into Winter, awakenings
Dead Winter opens eyes to tears
Smile and laughter now appears.

The sun rekindles its fire, brighter
Spring, fragile hope of the warmer
Times, green shoots on the bough
New seed with spade and plough.

Plait St Brigid’s cross, gift food
Lay on window sill for plenitude
Place in stables, bless the beasts
St Bridid’s Eve is time for feasts.

Imbolc is here, the Celtic Sabbat
So light candles in every habitat
Celebrate the ever dawning light
Days lengthen, all will be right.