To set the scene, picture standing naked in your sacred grove in the dead of the night whilst experiencing Britain's finest weather before reading this...
Give me no comfort, o cold and wet earth,
Show your embrace is not for the living.
Stick to my skin, make my body feel heavy,
Then reject me, and push me away.
Refuse and then scorn my demands for nutrition,
Make my garden crops wither and sleep,
Cloak yourself gently in a red golden mantle,
Withdraw deep inside, still your breath.
Scratch me and shove me, o chilling North wind,
Take the heat from my ages old skin,
Make me crave shelter away from your screaming,
Give me no peace from your violent storm.
Blow dust and debris about me and through me,
Make me blind to the damage you cause.
Uproot and destroy my feeble constructions,
Then without warning, just leave me, alone.
Scour my flesh, o cold, driving rain,
Use your needles to chill me to the bone.
Flood my shelter with water, making ev'rything soggy,
Turn my pathway to mud, slow my progress back home.
My rhythms will falter, for no work can I do,
Whilst you batter down onto the fields.
I'm forced to wait, watching, and listen to the drumming
On the roof, of your onslaught against me.
Ah, but now there's the fire, burning the brush and the weeds
Turning swept leaves to delicate ash.
Showing me faces I'd thought long forgotten,
Bringing memories rushing back from the past.
O fire, take this paper marked with old indiscretions
I've held on to, thus holding me back.
Cailleach - drink deep from my doubts and my fears,
Release me to ride the next wild turn of the Wheel.