I wrote the following poem inspired by the life and stories surrounding the Irish hermit St Kevin of Glendalough, who among other things was known for his great rapport with animals.
Restoration
Beasts revere
the rites of nature,
adore
the Word who made them.
For all their fierceness,
hounds do not hate their prey.
Men,
immortal beings
made to walk with angels,
are the ones to fear.
Alienated, separate,
cut off
by Adam’s fall
from previous bliss,
afraid or unaware
of life’s potential.
This is clear from all
around me,
such anxious
quiet desperation.
So it is the Father of lights
allows the Saints in this
their Age
extraordinary graces,
demonstrates just how
right things can be.
Despite February dampness,
Eden’s similitude rises
like the mist in
my valley of two lakes.
Transfiguring imminence
attracts the mated blackbird.
She glides above the Green Path,
alights on my rugged shoulder,
finds her way to hand
outstretched in imitation
of my God and Brother.
This creature,
secure in glorious
innocent instincts,
senses how even my
frail fallen body
pulsates in this
glowing dawn in
graceful unity with
a soul once more
aware of its creator.
My palm,
warm and still
despite the morning frost,
will shield her
fragile egg
through Lent
to glorious Easter.
Festina Lente 