by Molly Swan-Sheeran
The medusan snarls of bull kelp seem to writhe on the beach where a southerly flung them ashore. In the fading light their golden brown lengths twist around each other like an ancient Celtic design. My eyes squint as the last sunshine glints off the twill-woven sea. Among the kelp the winter wren flicks and picks at a wealth of bugs Its brave upturned tail and soft umber feathers tell a simple story. On Saint Bridget's Day if a wren enters your house it portends either a death in the family or having a priest to dinner. Generations of Irishmen have scurried to ask the priest to dinner. And so the happy wren ensures the clergy a hearty meal while following its nature to find a sheltered spot to nest. Before the church came. it was the Day of Bridget, the Triple Goddess. The dinner guest might have been a Druid, a poet, or a smith. Our spirits cleave to the simple continuity of birds.