By Ronnie Smith

Word Count: 191

Rating: G (suitable for all audiences)

Summary: A poem of St. Bridget

The shrine of this island
was forest until torched by faith that won’t expire
a flame thrown from standing stones
festive as an ancient dancing yew

Your tale of the Gael
would groom furrows in lands where no Roman fell
your province by necklace of earth, 
wind, fire, and water

Where the press of your footsteps
was beaten flat by armies of Time who savor sadness
yet recall your image shimmering 
the lough and salmon-fat river

Forget us not to chat
waiting by the well under sky’s sprinkled blessing,
whose voice buries the stillness 
that claims the soul in every Eire that was

As if bubbles on a stream
need rocks to rise, running and leaping the path
of beauty’s uninhibited love and 
suffering that pop without stopping

A complexion unblemished
when the mind can rinse the chatter of vanities
to let the holy speak without speaking 
through all speechless planes

As a door in Kildare
illumined Sanctity Herself, which will not bar 
nor ever jar the lantern you carried 
on the bowed cross you bore.