Travelling up through Bridgit's land,
Forest, marsh and glen.
Through mountains, across moors,
To her Northern throne.
She sits here, in the wind,
Wailing through my ears.
She screams her power through me,
Her damp icy braht on my face.
My hands are chapped by her,
Red raw and bleeding.
Bridgit does not care,
She is the goddess of these lands.
My head swims and spins,
The moor grass bends flat.
Rocks and crags lay silent,
She cries on.
I leave her prescence,
But not her land.
She will find me again,
In forest, marsh and glen.
Ravenswan