The Writer's Call

Your words must wash the floor for love,

I heard it all declare. I kissed my pen, 

swore this decree to air. 

Then set to work on bended knee, a childlike creep 

through house and street, to clean through 

what’s encrusted there.

It’s done for you, kind reader, dear,

who walks my words across the page, 

who seeks clear ground in marks I make:

the glisten in your gleaning eye, 

that shines with mine, us both to see

how in the clearing, all can be.

Day Out At Glendalough

After you have walked the ruins 

of seven churches,

tilted back your head to seek the top 

of the tower that took 

the rounded point 

of Kevin’s steeple

and thrust it up, 

three times as high,

from earth to sky to mark

the ground you walk upon

as holy;

after you have circled green lake paths

that urge you up, then further up,

to top the crashing

waterfall, then

higher;