by Janine Phillips
Snowwind whips against my cheek,
like sharp, grey wisps of The Cailleach’s mane.
As Winter settled into Spring,
the Crone huddled, deceptive in her stance.
We thought she moved on in mercy and light,
then her laughter bellowed across flats and hill.
Along the coast she scratched the land,
her fingers gnarled with timelessness.
She carved her path through night and day,
her breath a whisper, and then a gale.
Snow blows, wind whips, The Cailleach laughs;
dropping boulders of snow, determined and steadfast.
Mountains and hills formed from snow-covered cars;
Valleys carved out, with a crisp wave of her hand.
The world stood still, covered in awe,
as The Cailleach’s laughter rumbled o’er the land.
With a wintery farewell, filled with fanfare and mirth,
The Cailleach releases her hold on the Earth.
As blue skies break bright beyond horizon bleak,
The Cailleach’s snowwinds caress my ruddy cheek.
Janina Grey 