To Etch the Stars
It is a day without form, dark
as night, a dirty rain falls.
Still, I walk out, into the chaos,
see the cosmos as it was before:
a sea in storm, everything waiting
for the breath of God
to tame the wild ocean of the world.
Leaves blow like dust devils,
branches break limb from limb,
birds huddle under bushes, under eaves,
squawking, trembling, forgetting
even their young in their fear.
I wait at Doon Well, the prayer rags
and ribbons on the hawthorn tree
flutter in the wind. I stand my ground,
still, in chaos, storm, waiting
for the breath of God to conjure
a new world, to separate light from dark,
to etch again the stars onto the sky,
to raise the sun, to call us good
as He names each of us, one by one.
This poem is about a visit I made to Doon Well in Donegal. There are holy wells all over Ireland and over the centuries, they’ve places of pilgrimage, prayer, and healing. Here and here are two interesting links about the holy wells in Donegal. Found near any holy wells are trees with all sorts of things tied to the branches - rosary beads, baby booties, prayer cards, ribbons, really anything. These are left there by visitors, sometimes in petition and sometimes in thanks. I’ll write more later…must get to my paying job!