The seventh poem in Angela Alaimo O’Donnell’s series. Click “Crossing Ireland” for the opening essay. More about Angela Alaimo O’Donnell
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ON PILGRIMAGE
Glendalough Monastery
They’re great ones for travel, the Irish Saints,
or so the map announces with its names
of mountains, towns, and old holy wells.
Brigid loved Liscannor’s Hag’s Head grandeur—
and the ground gushed in sympathy, healed all harm
long after she left to tend the fires of Kildare.
Patrick climbed the Croagh above Clew Bay
and hove a great bell past the edge
ringing in the era of snake-less Éire,
while Brendan rowed his Bantry boat from coast
to coast, baptizing pagans and blessing babies,
before setting out, at last, for America
like so many of his kin and kind
in centuries to come. How rare the saint
who homes, the blackbird hatching in his hand.
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Dave Walsh photo.com