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.