Blackthorn blossoms and the brightening earth
The Cailleach’s last hurrah:
As the sharp winds ease and the light lingers longer each evening, there’s a moment, right before the full tilt into early summer, where the land seems to pause, holding its breath.
It’s here the Cailleach, the veiled hag of winter and crone of the old year, makes her final appearance. Not in storm or frost, but in a softer, stranger way: through the sudden, stark blossoming of blackthorn across the hedgerows.
White against bare branches, the blackthorn bloom is winter's ghost, an eerie, elegant farewell. She blossoms before her leaves arrive, as if declaring: I was here first. Remember me.
This is the Cailleach’s last hurrah. A final flourish before she turns her staff to stone and sinks back into the mountains, or transforms, as some say, into Brídget. But before she goes, she leaves us with this prickling beauty. A liminal bloom, thriving in the in-between.
Last year around this turning point, I wrote twice about the spiral movement of the seasons and the transition toward the bright half of the year, including some seasonal prompts. If you missed them or would like to revisit them, here they are:
👉 Spiralling Toward the Bright Half
This year, I find myself watching the hedgerows more closely, the blackthorn in full riot, the nettles reawakening, the dandelions bold and golden at my feet. The Cailleach doesn’t leave quietly. She sings herself out in blossom and thorn.
We’re spiralling again, but it’s not a circle, it’s a spiral upward. A deeper return. A brighter step. A gathering of light, with the shadow still stitched into its hem.
🌒🌕🌘