Poetry by Frances Mulholland: Triquetra
My ring finger presses lightly,
silver loops. Beatha shíoraí.
The cycle ends, and then renews again.
Maiden. Mother. Crone.
It seemed that simple long ago, but
I’m too young to be a Crone,
Mother am I not, and
Oh, Mammy Mine, how long is it
since I was a Maiden?
I tuck the silver symbol back inside
its velvet box.
I’ll wear it one day, some day, maybe.