The personal space of Leanne « Awaiting Sentence «
An dà shealladh
One-eyed winter, bent-backed hag, she
slopes across the shadowed corries,
harvesting the weak and wasted,
rinsing Alba with her wake.
I have seen her, outside-in and
boiling through the fog of Mary's
mildness, driving ice before her,
genesis beneath her feet.
Throw your words of he-said, he-said,
jealous black and whitely righteous,
onto fires of harvest's ending:
Cailleach cannot see a cross.
Call the mists to veil the vistas
ancient under concrete scarring;
none may yoke her, land or lady:
she is threefold, she is One.
Funny, isn't it, how some religions -- the same ones that marginalise or water down women -- assume that they were the first and only to come up with the three-in-one notion?
And they'd be the same ones who encourage trick-or-treat trivialisation of something much older.