Siobhán Keane

Brigid is a goddess of poetry among her other trades, and every so often I wake with a line that doesn't feel like mine. Last night's: 'The well remembers what the bucket forgets.' I keep a pencil by the bed now, not a pen, because pens die at 3am and pencils don't. Wrote it on the back of the electric bill. No idea yet what the rest of the poem is. I'm in no rush. She's never once handed me the whole thing at once.

A turnip lantern, the old way

Before pumpkins took over, Irish children carved turnips for Samhain. Big knobbly swedes, hollowed out with a spoon and a great deal of muttering, a face cut in to frighten off anything wandering the roads that night. So this year I did it the old way. It took ninety minutes, two blisters and most of my patience. The result looks like a potato that has seen things. I adore him. He's on the stone step by the front door with a tealight in a little jar, nothing near him that can catch, and I'll blow him out before bed. The barmbrack is cooling in the kitchen with a ring baked in, so someone in this house is getting engaged this year, or at least a fright at the dentist.

The woman at the well

Went down to Brigid's well in Kildare on a grey weekday, the kind where it's only you, the crows and a couple of pensioners doing the rounds. Tied a strip of old cotton to the tree (it rots away, as it should) for a friend who's struggling, said a few lines of my own to Brigid, and walked along the stream. An older woman I'd never seen before fell into step beside me. Didn't introduce herself. She said, 'She hears the ones who come in the rain best,' and pressed a little rush cross into my hand, the kind you make at Imbolc, a bit dusty like it had lived on a dashboard all year. I turned to thank her and she was already halfway up the lane. Probably just a lovely local woman. Probably. The cross is on my altar now, beside the candle and the fire extinguisher.

Doing the rounds at the well

Drove out to Brigid's well at Kildare on Sunday in a soft grey drizzle, the best weather for it. Did the rounds the old way, walking sunwise and stopping at each of the stones, with a line of poetry at each one instead of the usual prayers, since that's how she and I talk. An older woman was praying her rosary rounds right behind me. We ended up sharing a flask of tea by the stream and agreeing that Brigid has room for the both of us. Her mother first brought her there in 1961. One small plea if you visit any holy well or rag tree: tie only strips of cotton or wool that will rot away, never ribbon or plastic. The wish is meant to fade as the cloth does.

Blackberry cordial before the púca gets them

In Ireland you're told never to pick blackberries after Samhain, because the púca goes round and spits on every last one. My gran put it a little more rudely than that. So the last weekend in September is cordial weekend in this house. Two big bowls of berries from the ditch at the end of the road (above dog height, always), a splash of water, simmered soft and mashed with a wooden spoon. Strained overnight through muslin, then sugar and the juice of a lemon, brought to the boil and bottled. A dash in sparkling water by the fire in January is a whole summer, saved. The first glass gets poured out under the hawthorn for the good people. Best to stay on their side.