A BRIGID'S GIRDLE Last time I wrote I wrote from a rustic table Under magnolias in South Carolina As blossoms fell on me, and a white gable As cleaned-lined as the prow of a white liner Bisected sunlight in the sunlit yard. I was glad of the early heat and the first quiet I'd had for weeks. I heard the mocking bird And a delicious, articulate Flight of small plinkings from a dulcimer Like feminine rhymes migrating to the north Where you faced the music and the ache of summer And earth's foreknowledge gathered in the earth. Now it's St. Brigid's Day and the first snowdrop In County Wicklow, and this is a Brigid's Girdle I'm plaiting for you, an airy fairy hoop (Like one of those old crinolines they'd trindle), Twisted straw that's lifted in a circle To handsel and to heal, a rite of spring As strange and lightsome and traditional As the motions you go through going through the thing. -- Seamus Heaney