The dawn breaks soft o’er Brigid’s well,
Where primrose bloom and thrushes dwell.
The hawthorn stirs, its blossoms shy,
And whispers stir the silver sky.
The veil is thin, the world grows wide—
And I walk the land with spirit as guide.
For Easter comes not just with the Cross,
But with Earth’s great rising, beyond all loss.
In the sacred hills where deer still roam,
And moss wraps round the faery’s home,
We feel the call of something deep—
A seed long buried, now stirred from sleep.
The stone remembers. The river sings.
The crow above on wild black wings
Calls out a name I knew before
In lifetimes passed and dreamtime lore.
Come walk with me, for coming tomorrow
Is more than joy—it is shed sorrow.
The wheel turns round, the tomb lies bare,
The sun returns, the hawks take air.
The Christ walks here, aye, side by side
With Cailleach wise and Brigid bright-eyed.
In Ireland, truth is never just one—
We see the whole, the moon and the sun.
We burn the herbs, we cleanse the stone,
We bless the field, we walk alone
And yet together, soul by soul,
Each one part of a greater whole.
The fire is lit upon the hill,
A beacon of hope, a prayer, a will.
Ash to earth, and smoke to sky—
Old pain released with every sigh.
I place a flower on an ancient grave,
To honor the lost, the bold, the brave.
The ones who knew that spring would come
Even in shadow, even when numb.
So now we feast, and now we sing,
For Easter rises like the spring.
The egg, the lamb, the sacred flame—
All ancient signs, though names may change.
Let your heart rise like the morning dew,
Let your spirit dance, be born anew.
In the land of saints and sidhe and song,
You’ve known this wisdom all along.
