(Originally published in Druid's Progress 12)

Of the first fire, she sings -
of the first fire of Spring, she sings,
Her voice ringing clear in the cold winter air,
as she rises and gathers her things.

In the first light, she yawns -
in the first light of dawn, she yawns,
The grove is asleep in Brigit's fair keep
and the door fills with mist from the lawns.

In her bare feet, she walks -
in her bare feet, in the frost, she walks
She walks to the well, her buckets to fill,
where they've hung strips of colorful cloth.

Like water the Spring shall rise -
like water, the Spring, she cries, shall rise!
When weather is harsh, and the reeds in the marsh
bend with the snow and the ice.

So sweet is the song of the water -
so sweet is the singing of fire and water
She pours in the pot all the water she's got
to heat for her sons and her daughters.

Of the sacred fire, she shouts!

The sacred fire's gone out! she shouts,
But no one hears through the sleep in their ears,
she's the only one up and about.

So singing she carries the wood -
so singing she carries the load of wood.
She might as well sing, she's done everything,
yet her people are kind and good.

But sometimes the people forget
Sometimes the people, says Brigit, forget.
So she kindles the flame, and she calls it by name,
and it rises and comes to her yet.

Of the first fire, she sings -
of the first fire burning, she sings -
Then she disappears, like the smoke in the air,
like the unseen beginnings of Spring.

WARNING: Keep water handy. Brigit took this poem quite literally when it was read at Green Man Grove's Imbolc last year - a flame dropped from a candle, ignited a reed dolly that had been offered previously to Her, and caused a hearty conflagration.