Let the woman who cannot carry her bairn

go to the grave, step three times over

say, earth, earth, mother of earth,

help me against late birth, the lame –

and when that woman goes to rest

with her beloved man in bed

may he feed and tend to her,

say, up you go, over you step,

full with our first-born birthling,

swelling and fattening, ripening,

and when the mother senses

the quickening and the dropping,

woman with a cradle she cannot fill,

let her go to a child's resting place

pick a flower from the grave,

wrap it in black wool and throw the petals

far, like bad corn, far away,

then let her draw milk from the mildest

beast and sip it from her palm,

take her to the stream to say,

everywhere I have carried you

strong, tight and firm

and I shall carry you until you are born

and then I shall carry you home.