In Ireland, St. Stephen’s Day is also known as Wren’s Day – a tradition descending either from Celtic or Nordic mythology, where boys would hunt for a wren and then take the captured bird around town singing and asking for coins.
There are various stories attached to the tradition, including one where a wren betrayed Irish soldiers to invading Vikings, by beating its wings upon their shields, earning the moniker, ‘traitor-birds’.
Whatever the root of the story, it made me think of this beautiful poem by Michael Hartnett – recalling an incident from his childhood when a fledged nest of wrens landed on him and his grandmother claimed it foretold his calling as a poet.
A Necklace of Wrens
for Micheal O Ciarmhaic, file
When I was very young
I found a nest.
Its chirping young
were fully fledged.
They rose and re-alighted
around my neck,
Made in the wet meadow
a feather necklet.
To them I was not human
but a stone or tree:
I felt a sharp wonder
they could not feel.
That was when the craft came
which demands respect.
Their talons left on me
scars not healed yet.
Via The Guardian – the original article also contains the Irish version and an appraisal of the poem.
Illustration: Lilydale Lake Wren by Jan Liesfield
a dreaming skin 