Thursday, June 26, 2014
Rain. Soft rain. Hard pelting rain. Sleet and snow.
Clouds: white, grey, dark. A spring breeze.
The predictability of stars and moon and sun.
Green small hills. Craggy slopes. Granite cliffs.
Topsoil deep and rich. The melody of rivers.
The power of tides. The cycle of change.
Industry of bee and worm. Sweet fruit that follows.
Microbes that make cheese. Ones that cure us.
Profound cooperation that begets lichen.
Birdsong carried on wind. The shadow of a horse
against a limestone wall. A dog's warmth.
Blood. Flesh. Bones. Hearts. Breath.
A friend's hand, reaching out for help or tea.
A sigh, a song, an honest smile, a body dancing.
Everything that connects and is connected.
~ Patricia Monaghan
26 June, 2014
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Friday, June 20, 2014
Three holy women came westward
from France to that place on the border
of Kerry and Cork where the great paps
rise, Danu's giant mist-clad breasts:
Lasair, the eldest, stopped at Killasseragh
and made a hermit's cell her home;
and the middle sister, the yellow haired one,
went along the Blackwater to Dromtarriff
and stopped her journey there; and
the youngest, Latiarian, went to coal-rich
Cullen, where a smith gave her embers
every day to heat her hut. She carried
the embers back in her apron and spent
her days in prayer and contemplation.
Then one day the smith complimented
her shapely feet and Latiarian's apron
burst into flame and she uttered a curse
that no smith would ever thrive in Cullen
and she disappeared, leaving behind
only a granite stone beside the road.
Her curse still holds. No blacksmith lives
in Cullen now to give away embers
and compliment the women. What's
left of Latiarian? A heart-shaped stone.
20 June, 2014