holy weekend

holy weekend

 

Friday night

pints of black -  

Tallisker chasers -

local folkies cutting loose

 

as the drinks went down

so the noise went up

the songs more raucous

the singing worse

 

I was there, but absent,

watching the clock hands

creep to midnight

 

Easter Saturday, 

tenth birthday

of a still-born son

snatched from us

never taking earthly breath

or spared time enough to cry

gone like summer frost

on a blade of grass

 

a tall man, quiet, full of years

took the seat beside me -  

a nod, curt but not unfriendly

 

then curving forward

he opened a wooden box of

pipes, knobs and leather bags

that fitted together 

like steam-punk

contraptionery

 

my turn to sing - I passed

 

from the stranger,

placid as a Shannon mist,

‘should I go next?’

 

he elbowed bellows

loosing a skirl

from uilleann bowels

 

the sombre drone touched 

depths beyond depths -

the lament enwrapped

my sadness, my regrets -

spiriting them away

 

God was speaking,

but what was He saying?

 

I closed my eyes

and visioned myself

on Skellig Michael

at a rock table

outside a stone beehive 

eating a banquet

fit for a penitent - 

oysters gathered at the shore  

 

I saw raw autumn

give way to harsh winter

food ran low

 

for drinking water?

melted snow

 

like guttering candles

our numbers dwindled

my brethren died

I survived

 

next Easter Day

at prayer in my cell 

set high above the Atlantic swell

waiting for death to come to me

I praised the Creator 

for all His gifts 

 

it started to snow –

a gentle flurry

hardened to blizzard - 

overcome by cold  

I passed slowly away

 

the pipes fell silent  

the quiet woke me

from my reverie  

 

the piper sighed, 

“‘Easter Snow’”

packed his box

and gently as he entered, 

left the bar.